11.

I’M DREAMING. I KNOW I AM because you are here with me. I can’t see you, but I can feel your presence beside me, around me. But it is not only you that I feel…. John Grace is here and even Jack. Yes, I can feel their presence, sliding around from one to the other. Dreams are like that; there is never a face, only an impression vague and transient but strong enough for recognition. But mostly it is you that I feel, your presence, Leland—comforting, familiar. I have missed that.

We are somewhere, but I’m not sure where. It is noisy, confusing. Ah, I see now. We are at the side of a busy road and trying to cross it. We must cross it for some reason that evades me, but it is there, the need to push on. Cars are passing by so close, so quickly. I can feel the air they displace moving across me, blowing back my hair, flapping our clothes, a whirlwind. It is dangerous, but we are moving into the centre of the highway—for now I see it is a highway. It’s like wading into a deep and swiftly flowing stream, isn’t it? It’s dark now. There are streetlights and headlights all around while we make our way to the other side. Funny that I’m not frightened. Have I done this before? Do I already know that we will make it across? I have no fear. Perhaps I am favoured by God? Yes, I must be. I feel the confident in this. We are almost there, and I am smiling. I can feel the smile. I can almost see it on my face, as if I am above and looking down. Look back at how far across we have come! Ha! I can see the other side, recognize the other side. Others are there now. I’m not sure who it is, but they are there looking out. Now they’re stepping into the traffic. One of the children? Oh, they are so young—maybe five or six—still small enough to lift into my arms, if I could bear the weight. Clearly it’s a child, but I’m not sure who. I just know it’s one of mine. I feel it now. I’m anxious, fearful for their safety. Oh, Leland, the child! It’s Gary who is following us, but who is with him? Who is holding his hand? He is too young to be attempting this. Where is his father? Why is no one with him? I move to the edge of the highway, across from him, arms open wide, waiting, waiting, waiting. I ache for him to make it to me, to hold his small body against my own. I can feel his warmth, his sparrow-like arms around me, his head beneath my own. I’m dreaming I know—my actions and emotions so separate from each other. I feel no recrimination, no overwhelming responsibility, only hope that he will make it to my arms. Suddenly there is movement. My eyes open; I’m awake. I can’t move. I push against something hard. My face is cold.

“NAN, ARE YOU AWAKE? We’re almost there. We’ll be pulling into the station in a few minutes.” Lisa leans over, smiling into Ruby’s open eyes. “You okay, Nan?” Ruby remains still, slumped against the window pane. “Nan?” Lisa tries again, touching Ruby’s left arm lying along the armrest.

I can’t move, Ruby thinks. My arms, my legs, my mouth. I can’t move.

Lisa gently pulls her grandmother to an upright position. “Nan, can you hear me?” Her voice is full of alarm. “Oh my God, Nan. Nan.” She looks about and raises herself from her chair, her hand still on Ruby’s arm. She calls out, “Someone, I need some help here! Please, I need some help!”

“What is it?” A young man from a seat a few rows back moves to Lisa’s side, a concerned look on his face.

“I don’t know, but something is wrong with my grandmother. She isn’t moving. She’s not talking. I don’t know what to do. I think she’s had a stroke or something.” Lisa’s voice is tight with panic.

“I’ll go find someone, tell someone. We’ll need an ambulance. Try to stay calm, and I’ll be right back.” The words are barely out before he is gone; in his wake, a rush of air swirls around the occupants of the car, leaving them anxious and alert.

“Can you push her chair back?” asks a woman in a nearby seat. “My name is Sherry—I’m a nurse. Can you push her chair back and straighten out her legs? I think you’re right; I think she’s had a stroke. Let’s make her as comfortable as possible. We’re almost at the station; hopefully they will have an ambulance waiting by the time we get there.”

“Thank you,” Lisa answers, looking quickly from Ruby to Sherry. “She’s my grandmother. She’s eighty-nine. We were talking together the whole way here. I don’t understand….” She shakes her head in disbelief.

“These things happen. Especially to the elderly. Don’t worry, we’ll get her help as soon as possible.”

Holding Ruby’s trembling hand, Lisa comforts her grandmother. “It’s all right, Nan. It’s all right.”

Ruby understands the tone but not the words. She tries to respond, but her language, along with her ability to form the words, is gone. All familiarity is gone. There is pain, sharp and localized behind her left eye, and only a vague awareness of her surroundings. Words form in her head with an urgency she does not understand, but her speech comes out in a croaking, choked sounds that frighten her.

In a state of suspended shock, the women wait for the train to pull into the station, for the paramedics and the stretcher to arrive, for the difficult transfer from the chair to the stretcher, from the train to the platform, from the platform to the waiting ambulance. Lisa, fearful the whole time, holds herself together with a calmness that belies the chaos churning beneath the surface. The anxiety and worry cannot be good for the baby, she thinks, holding on to this thought in order to sooth her own emotions.

Sherry, an emergency nurse with twelve years of experience, oversees everything calmly. She is all efficiency and business, helping Lisa stay focused throughout. Still, without realizing it, Lisa is holding on to Sherry like a child as they wheel the stretcher into the ambulance, Ruby firmly strapped down.

“There’s only room for one,” the paramedic comments as he turns from the stretcher.

“Yes. I’m coming with you,” Lisa answers, finally relinquishing Sherry’s hand and turning toward her with gratitude. The kindness of strangers, Lisa thinks.

“Don’t worry. You’re in good hands now.” Sherry smiles, her eyes level. She gives Lisa’s hand a final squeeze as the medic pulls the ambulance door closed with a metallic thud.

It takes only a few minutes for the ambulance to make its way to Northwestern Memorial, but for Lisa it feels like hours as she sits nervously beside the two paramedics, holding Ruby’s hand and watching her grandmother’s eyes for signs of recognition or comprehension.

“When did you notice the paralysis?” the paramedic beside her asks, adjusting the oxygen mask over Ruby’s mouth, her eyes wild and unfocused above.

“When she woke up. I mean, when I was trying to wake her, about half an hour ago now.”

“So, no signs of anything before she fell asleep? She didn’t complain of a headache, of dizziness or numbness of any kind?”

“No. We were talking and she was fine. Sharp and coherent. She was telling me about her life.”

“No confusion?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How long was she asleep for?”

“I’m not sure, but not long. Maybe twenty minutes. Is that important?”

“We need to establish the time of onset. It will determine what they can do for her at the hospital. Some drugs have to be administered within hours.”

“Will she be okay?”

“We can’t tell yet, but try not to worry. We’re headed to Northwestern, and it’s one of the best neurological centers in the country.”

At the emergency room, there are more of the same questions. Ruby is rushed into another area, while Lisa is left in the pale-yellow waiting room, surrounded by vending machines and desperation.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, did you come in with the elderly woman in the ambulance?” A short haired, perky nurse comes up to Lisa, her words clipped, her smile practised.

“Yes, I did. How is she?”

“We won’t know that until she has been examined and sent for some tests, but I will need you to fill out a few forms for me.” She hands Lisa a clipboard and pen, and points to the nearest chair—imitation blue leather with plastic yellow arms. “You can just bring them to the desk when you’re finished.” Another smile before turning away.

“When can I see her?” Lisa asks, embarrassed by the vulnerability she hears in her voice.

The nurse calls back over her shoulder. “As soon as the forms are filled out, I’ll take you to see her.” She turns to face Lisa, compassion on her face, her competence of a moment ago replaced with humanity. “And try not to worry. She is in the best hands, and everything that can be done for her is being done.”

Sitting down, the clipboard forgotten beside her, Lisa fumbles for her cellphone. In the pandemonium since the train, she has not thought about contacting anyone, but now with the small weight of the phone sitting in her hand, she feels the need for connection. She’ll have to call Aunt Phoebe. They were to meet tonight at the hotel after Phoebe’s conference. She’ll have to call her mom and dad too, but the first call she finds herself making is to her boyfriend, Stephen. The call goes to voicemail, but just the sound of his recorded voice brings a level of comfort. “Hi, Steve. I’m in Chicago, but I’m calling from the hospital. Nan had a stroke—I think. Well, I’m pretty sure. They’re with her now and I’ll know for sure after the doctor has looked at her.” Her voice breaks with the relief of the connection, with the realization that she is not alone in this. Controlling her emotions, she continues, “Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve got to call my dad and my aunt Phoebe, but I just wanted to let you know. Anyway, call me when you get this. Bye.”

Now, the rest of the calls, Lisa says to herself. She feels the fatigue of the trip and this experience settling in on her like a physical weight. Phoebe’s cell goes to voicemail, as does her dad’s. Leaving a similar message on both phones, she is unable to avoid the sound of controlled panic that has edged into her words.

She fills out the forms to the best of her ability, and returns them to the admissions desk. The same nurse leads her through the labyrinth of halls to a small, draped, temporary room. Ruby is lying in the bed, the green hospital gown adding to the ashen pallor of her face. The head of her bed is elevated, and another nurse is adjusting the drip of her I.V.

“How is she?” Lisa asks, her eyes searching Ruby’s face.

“Well, she is as comfortable as we can make her.”

“Can she hear me?”

“She can hear you. I just don’t know if she can understand you. The doctor will be in shortly to explain what is going on.”

“She’s had a stroke,” Lisa says turning to the nurse.

“Yes, she’s had a stroke.”

“LISA.” A HAND ON HER SHOULDER, gentle and familiar. Lisa smiles, opening her eyes and passing her hand through her hair. “Aunt Phoebe. You got my call?” she asks, her voice hushed, stealing a quick look at Ruby, whose eyes are closed and still.

“Yes, I tried calling you back, but I don’t think you can get a signal in here.” Moving to the bed and taking her mother’s hand, Phoebe continues. “How is she?”

“The doctor says she’s stable.” Leaning forward, Lisa watches the fear and concern pass over her aunt’s face. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Turning and reaching for Lisa’s hand with her free one, Phoebe smiles. “You’re doing great, honey. I spoke to Francis and Gary—they’re both on their way.”

“Good.”

“What have the doctors said?”

“A blood clot in the left hemisphere. She might need surgery, but they have given her some drugs to help stop the bleeding and they’re going to observe her progress.”

Moving the only other chair in the room beside her niece, Phoebe sits, taking Lisa’s hand in her own. “Poor Mom.”

“She’ll pull through this.” Lisa nods with conviction. “She’s strong and determined.”

“Yes, she’s strong and determined all right,” Phoebe answers, a smile in her voice.

The two women sit in silence, holding hands and watching Ruby, who drifts in a world beyond them. It’s a world without distinction, without edges, where light and dark swirl, dipping and reeling, fluidly like water..

“We should go and get something to eat and some rest. I don’t think it will do any good if we get sick.” Phoebe stands, breaking their vigilance. “We’ve been here for quite a while, and you’re looking pretty wiped, Lisa. We’ll come back first thing in the morning with your dad and Uncle Francis, but first let me take you for something to eat.”

Phoebe hails a cab just outside the hospital, opens the door for Lisa, and quickly gets in after her, giving the driver the address of the restaurant before she is even properly seated.

“Boy, you seem to know where you’re going around here,” Lisa says, smiling at Phoebe. She has always admired her aunt; she is so competent, pulled together, and beautiful.

“Well, I have been here for a week, you know, and it doesn’t take long to find the best places to eat. I found this great little restaurant called RoSal’s the second night I was here. I hope you like Italian.”

“Yes, that sounds good.” Lisa sighs, leaning into the comfort of Phoebe’s company.

THE RESTAURANT IS QUIET; the late supper rush is over, and although many of the tables are full, meals are finished and patrons are lingering over coffee and liquors, satiated and satisfied. Looking more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece—Phoebe’s tailored suit and briefcase the antithesis of Lisa’s jeans and casual sweater—they follow the hostess to their table.

“I just remembered the luggage. We didn’t get it when we arrived. In the commotion of everything, I didn’t even think about it,” Lisa comments, slipping into her chair and realizing with eager anticipation that she is actually hungry.

“Don’t worry; I think we’re almost the same size. When we get to the hotel, you can look through my stuff and use whatever you need. I brought so much with me to this conference, you’ll think you’re shopping at Holt Renfrew’s. We can stop off at a drugstore for a toothbrush and anything else you’ll need for tonight, then tomorrow we can go to the station. I’m sure the luggage will be there in a holding room or something.” Phoebe looks across at her niece. The candlelight plays with the angles of her face, making her look tired and drawn. “You look pretty tired, honey. We’ll eat and then head for the hotel. You need a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, I need a good night’s sleep. It feels like I haven’t been to bed in weeks.”

“I’ll order for us, shall I?” Phoebe asks.

“Yes, that would be great.” Lisa, placing her hand on her stomach, leans back into the comfort of the chair, the atmosphere and the presence of her aunt helping to restore her somewhat.

“Did you want to tell me about the trip, Lisa? How was Nan doing leading up to the stroke? Did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, it’s so funny; there was nothing to indicate that this was going to happen. Nan was doing really well with the travelling and everything. We disembarked once and that was great. We spent time in the bar car and just chatted and laughed most of the day. She would fall asleep sometimes and be a bit disoriented when she woke, but she’s been like that since the stroke she suffered last year.”

“I wonder why she insisted on making this trip,” Phoebe says, shaking her head, her eyes distant.

“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth, but I think maybe she’s feeling trapped.” Lisa leans forward. “You know, trapped in the retirement home, trapped in the amount of time she has left. She wanted to see Chicago, to see you. She even wanted to go to California to see Uncle Francis.”

“Well, that all sounds pretty ambitious for a woman her age, doesn’t it? But then Mom was always that.”

Lisa detects a note of something in Phoebe’s voice, a deeper feeling or thought behind the words. Aware that she would never stray into these waters had it not been for all that has happened on the train, she asks as gently as she can, “Aunt Phoebe, how do feel about Nan?”

“Feel about her? What do you mean?” Phoebe, startled, looks over at Lisa, but before she can answer the waiter approaches. Phoebe orders their meal and then decides on a bottle of wine, Chianti. She whispers across the table to Lisa, “Maybe we’re going to need two bottles of wine for this.”

“It’s not going to be that bad.” Lisa laughs at Phoebe’s face, her eyes rolled to the side in mock desperation. “It’s just that Nan was telling me about her life during the trip, and some of the things she said… Well, some of it made sense, some of it gave me an insight into the whole dynamics of our family.”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued. What did she say?” Phoebe leans back while the waiter sets down their glasses, pours the wine, and smiles at the women.

“Well, there was a lot.. I mean, it was a long trip!” Lisa laughs. “And she is quite a character.”

“That’s the truth! She has a big personality. She’s full of life, full of adventure, and she’s great in company, always on stage. You know what she believed about the stage?” Phoebe asks. Smiling at the memory, she continues without waiting for Lisa to reply, “When you’re on the stage, take it!” Swinging her arms in the air for emphasis, Phoebe laughs, short and loud, a sound that leaves a heavy echo in the heart.

Moving into the silence Phoebe has left, Lisa begins, hesitantly, to tip-toe into the deep water, wondering what could possibly be compelling her. “I suppose one of the things she said that struck me was that she thought she was afraid of you. Did you ever feel that, that she was afraid of you?”

“No, I never thought that,” Phoebe answers, staring into the candle and continuing after a moment. “Sometimes I wondered…. I mean, I am her daughter and I know she loves me, but I wondered sometimes if she ever really liked me? For years, I felt she didn’t actually like me.” She shakes her head again. “But no, I never thought she was afraid of me. The only thing that makes me think of is that when she was younger, she had great feminine power, and she knew how to use it. Was she afraid of other women? Of me? Was I competition? None of us, Francis or your dad or I, pursued the arts in any way; that was our mother’s realm, and I guess we instinctively knew that. But I never thought she might be afraid of me. It’s an interesting insight.” She pauses. “Ruby Grace was a force to be reckoned with, a star in her own right, a singer, an actor, and I think a bit of a narcissist, too busy being loved to really love.”

“Do you actually think that, Phoebe?”

“Sometimes. We—her children, especially Francis and me—we were afterthoughts, casualties. I think that’s why neither of us have had successful relationships. I think we have to come to terms with that. Your dad was different; he was the youngest, the baby, and Leland adored him.”

“Nan talks about Leland James a lot. I think she still misses him.”

“Yes, that was a love match, but again maybe it was more about Leland loving her.” Phoebe reaches across the table and smiles into Lisa’s troubled face. “Don’t look so downcast, honey. I might be way off base here. I’m just trying to come to terms with a childhood that sometimes left me feeling lost more than anything. If you grow up like I did, you end up wondering why, and then you spend the best part of your life trying to figure it out and come to terms with it.

“But yes, Leland James and Ruby Grace were a love match. I have never had that, never experienced what it was that they had … a devotional love. I think your mom and dad have some of that, Lisa. Gary and Bernadette. I wonder if they know how lucky they are?”

“I think they do.”

“Good. How’s your mom doing, anyway? I haven’t seen Bernadette since Christmas.”

“She’s great. She’s a principal now and I think she’s enjoying the new challenges. Dad’s always teasing her about wanting her to give him detention.” Lisa smiles at the memory of her parents, flirting and joking in the kitchen before she left for Chicago. Was it really only yesterday?

“And you and Jacklyn have been spending time together, as usual.” Phoebe smiles at the thought of the two cousins as young girls, always together. She always thought they were more like sisters than cousins.

“Jacklyn must have told you—she was trying to come with us, but with the kids it’s hard to get away.”

“Yes, she told me she was trying to get things organized to come, but she just didn’t have enough time. Jacklyn has her hands full right now. It’s a busy time for her.”

Their meals arrive, the same smiling waiter placing the dishes before them with a flourish. The heavy fragrance of rosemary and garlic floods the table, and Lisa’s mouth salivates in anticipation. They eat in silence, savouring the food, enjoying the wine, although Phoebe notices that Lisa is hardly touching hers.

“I want to tell you something, Lisa. I haven’t even told Jacklyn, but it looks like I’ll be moving back to Ontario.”

“Wow, that’s great, Aunt Phoebe! Jacklyn will be so happy.”

“Yes, I’ll be happy to be back too. I’m missing Jacklyn and the kids, and I feel like I’m too far away from everything living in Vancouver. I’ve enjoyed my years out there, but I’m ready to move back. I applied for a transfer a few months ago, and I just found out yesterday that it was granted.” Phoebe smiles, lifting her glass in a salute.

“This is wonderful! Dad will be pleased about this. And Mom. Well, everyone will be.” Lisa’s voice rises with enthusiasm.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to coming home. And now with your grandmother and everything that has happened, I think the timing couldn’t be better.”

“Would you ladies like to order dessert?” the waiter asks, holding out a thin white menu like a trophy.

Phoebe looks across at Lisa and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

“Not tonight, as tempting as it is. I’m just too tired,” Lisa answers, stifling a yawn as if for emphasis.

“Just the cheque then, thank you,” Phoebe says, speaking to the waiter but laughing at Lisa.

The cab ride to the hotel doesn’t take long, but it is all Lisa can do to not fall asleep. Phoebe is quiet; she recognizes Lisa’s fatigue, and she’s anxious to get her comfortably situated in her room.

“Here we are,” Phoebe says, pulling the plastic card from its slot and opening the door to the hotel room. “I’ll get you a night dress if you want to use the bathroom and wash up or something. You can use any of my stuff in there. There’s night cream and makeup remover, although at your age you probably don’t need the night cream.”

By the time they are in bed, it is after midnight. Turning out the side lamp, the darkness almost complete, Phoebe relaxes for the first time that day.

“Thanks for the dinner tonight, Aunt Phoebe,” Lisa says into the darkness. “And for being there.”

“You’re welcome.” Phoebe laughs. “It was my pleasure. What else is family for?”

Lisa smiles at the sound of her aunt’s voice, familiar and reassuring across the few feet of darkness separating them. The pull toward sleep is overwhelming; Lisa can feel her eyelids closing, but her mind is still active, alive with the thoughts and feelings of the day. “Phoebe?”

“Yes?”

“You said that Leland adored my dad. Do you know why?”

There is silence for a moment before Phoebe answers. Her voice low and tired, she speaks into a darkness that contains them both. “He was the baby. He was only about four when Leland and Mom married. I suppose he just fell in love with Gary, and Gary with him. It’s hard to resist a baby—they open up a world in you that you never thought possible.”

Lisa, no longer able to hold onto her conscious self, mumbles into the darkness, “Thanks, Aunt Phoebe.”

“Good night, honey.”

THE LIGHT IN RUBY’S EYES is painful as she turns her head away from the window. Mostly she has been floating in a place without edges, without physicality and with only mild interruptions from the forms who move around her in hurried, frustrating ways. Things blur, energy merges, and images flow into one another like fluid, suspending her until she can hardly tell if she is asleep or awake. There are moments of staggering clarity during which she can grasp a thought, a word, an emotion, anchoring her to something outside her own moment of being—for she is aware of her being, aware of this moment, this floating beautiful moment, with no past and no future tethering her to continuity. She could stay here forever, but there is always something pulling at her, sounds that jar her reverie, sounds that are too loud, too confusing to attend to. Turning her face away, she avoids the intrusion until suddenly recognition dawns, and for an instant she knows there is something beyond where she finds herself. There it is again, a voice within a dream, an impression, forcing itself into her being.

“Mom. Mom, can you hear me? It’s Gary. I’m here with Francis and Phoebe. Mom?” His voice is gentle, a caress, and for a moment he sees clarity in Ruby’s eyes, a struggle for connection.

“Mom. What does ‘Mom’ mean?” Ruby tries to ask, but her voice is broken and laboured, her words indistinguishable, the effort ultimately too great.

“Your mother has suffered an Ischemic blood clot in the left hemisphere. Her ability to understand language has been affected.” A tall dark-haired young man enters the room. He addresses them all, but he looks specifically at Gary, who is still holding his mother’s hand in his own. Extending his hand, the young man continues, “I’m Dr. Phil Drummon, from the neurology department.”

“I’m Ruby Grace’s son, Gary.” He accepts the doctor’s handshake. “This is my brother Francis, my sister Phoebe, and my daughter Lisa.”

“Nice to meet you. It’s good that you are all here for support. I realize you have travelled from Canada.”

“Yes, we are Canadian,” Francis nods, “but I live and work in California at the university, and our mother is originally from Chicago.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate that she’s returned under such circumstances.”

“She was determined to make the trip. My sister was attending a conference here, and Mom insisted on visiting her, and the city of her birth—that’s how she always refers to Chicago.” Gary smiles weakly, catching Lisa’s eye.

“Well, hopefully that determination will help in her recovery.” The doctor moves toward Ruby and speaks directly to her. “I hear you were quite an accomplished singer and an actor, Ruby Grace.”

“Yes, she was,” Francis answers, moving to the head of the bed opposite the doctor. “I’ve just recently finished writing a book on her life as a singer. It’s just for the family, but she was a great talent in her time. She sang opera and jazz.”

“That’s quite the combination.” Smiling, the doctor turns to Francis. “You might want to bring in some music for her to listen to while she’s here.” Removing a small pen light from his pocket and moving it from Ruby’s left eye to her right, he continues, “Quiet stimulation is good. It’s hard to tell what information will be processed and how, but stimulation is always good.”

Light passes before her eyes, and for a moment Ruby realizes she is something separate from the energy around her. The pain has subsided, opening up a window to the present, unexpectedly pulling her back into consciousness with a crease of recognition. There is sound washing up onto the shore of understanding, a voice she knows…

“How long will she have to be here, Doctor?” Phoebe asks.

“I think she recognizes your voice, Phoebs.” Gary comments. “Speak to her again.”

Moving to take her mother’s hand, Phoebe speaks above a whisper. “Mom, it’s me Phoebe, your daughter. Can you hear me?”

What is ‘daughter’? Ruby wonders. The tangle of knowledge runs just beyond her grasp, her attention held by the sound of a voice she can recognize as familiar.

“This is good.” Dr. Drummon stands, smiling at Ruby and then looking around at the concerned faces in the room. “The first couple of days are the most critical. We have stopped the bleeding, and she is recognizing things around her. Good work, Mrs. Grace.” He pats her hand and pulls her attention to his face.

Turning, Ruby focuses on his mouth as it forms words, elusive as summer fire flies and just as mesmerizing. Then her lids, heavy with the need to obliterate the present, close over her eyes, and she sinks into the beauty of oblivion.

SOUNDS, FLOATING like dandelion seeds in the breeze, whirl around, some deep and distant, others lighter and clear, all of them beautifully suspended in and around her. There is meaning to this, a sound … music, Ruby thinks, as she is pulled into focus. Music is playing, the kind of music that she sings in the smoky night clubs of Toronto. Smiling, Ruby floats into the past, memories running through her mind with a clarity so sharp it is startling. The piano and the bass, are behind her on the stage, their notes blending and turning, and her voice is running just ahead, sometimes behind, in and around the notes like a fish in a stream. Leland is somewhere in the crowd, and she sings for him. But the crowd is noisy tonight, their conversations too loud to sing above, infringing on the music, on her concentration and her enjoyment. The light is too bright, breaking the atmosphere, ruining the verisimilitude. And there’s something else, an odour in the air making her feel physically sick, the cloying, heavy smell of flowers—roses. She squints into the light and turns her head from the smell, looking and listening for Leland. He must be out there; there’s his voice in the crowd—she can hear it. Yes, it is Leland.

“Lisa, who brought the flowers into the room?” Gary asks, walking into the room with Francis. “They’re agitating your nan. Let’s get them out of here.”

“A nurse brought them in while you and Uncle Frank were gone for coffee.” Lisa picks up the offensive flower arrangement and heads for the door.

“Sorry, Gary, I forgot about mom’s aversion to flowers,” Phoebe says, taking up her mother’s hand. “They were sent by some colleagues at the conference. They didn’t know, and I didn’t realize she was reacting to them.” Speaking to Ruby, Phoebe continues, “Is that better, Mom? We got rid of those offensive flowers.”

It’s really only the roses that I can’t abide, Ruby thinks, her eyes adjusting to the light in the room. She’s starting to recognize those around her; their energy swirls like light particles, but they are slowly becoming more familiar, more distinct. And there is something else she recognizes—voices, yes, that’s it, voices. The concentration it takes to focus on these things is tedious, the pull too oblivion too seductive. But there is a reason to hold on. There is something I must do, Ruby thinks as again she is lost in the pulse of light, of sound, of being.

“Funny how she’s never liked the smell of flowers,” Phoebe muses.

“I don’t think it’s flowers that bother her just roses,” Francis answers as he leans up against the large windowsill in their mother’s semi-private room Ruby has been moved to. “We could never have them in the house. Don’t you remember what she said about them?”

“Yes, she said they smelled liked blood.” Phoebe looks from Francis to Ruby. “I never got that. They can be overpowering, but I like the smell of roses.”

“Well, she’s always been pretty particular about things, too much of a perfectionist if you ask me.” Francis stands in the window, a silhouette in the late afternoon light.

“Yes, she’s always been that.” Phoebe pauses. “They say that perfectionists are trying to make up for the lack of control they feel in their lives.”

“I don’t know about that.” Gary laughs “Then we’d all be perfectionists, since control is only an illusion.”

“Wow, Dad, when did you become an existentialist?” Lisa asks, coming back into the room.

“Maybe I’ve always been one,” Gary says, smiling at his daughter. “I just didn’t realize it.”

“I think Mom just always wanted to feel in control,” Francis says, his eyes drawn to his mother’s. “I think she had great potential, great talent, but life for a woman in those days dictated a certain amount of conformity. I don’t think she ever really felt in control of her own life.”

“And I think we have all suffered for that,” Phoebe says, looking at her brother, her eyes sharp with memory.

“Maybe,” Francis answers.

“No, not maybe, Francis. We have. You’re right when you say that Mom felt like she had to conform, felt like she was caught.” Phoebe looks from Francis to Gary and then back to Ruby. “It’s not that she didn’t love us, it’s just that at a different time, given the choice, she may never have wanted to have children.”

“Really, Phoebe? You think that?” Gary asks.

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well, maybe you should think about it. It has affected all of us. I mean, look at me and look at Francis.” Phoebe smiles at her older brother. “No offence, Francis, but have you been able to stay in a stable relationship? And why have you never had children? And it’s not just you. I’m separated from a second husband; I have struggled in every relationship I have ever had. I have only one child; and Gary only has one child too. We aren’t exactly big on family.”

“Bernadette couldn’t have any more children after Lisa. We would have liked more.”

“Well, Gary, you’re a little different. You’re the baby of the family, and things were easier for you.” Phoebe smiles again, her voice level and devoid of judgment.

Gary shrugs, turning to Francis for confirmation.

“Yeah, it’s true,” Francis answers, nodding. “Things were easier for you. You had us.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad for you guys.” Gary looks from Francis to Phoebe.

“We’re not saying it was bad. It was just … different for us,” Phoebe says.

“Mom and Dad were off and on for years, and Phoebe and I were left alone a lot of the time because Mom was still trying to make it in the music business. Dad was always travelling. I don’t know for sure, but that could have been a big part of the problem.” Francis shrugs, an effort to push the past behind. “Anyway, it was years ago. And as they say, that which does not kill us makes us stronger. We are who we are because of who we were. Don’t you think so, Phoebe?”

Phoebe laughs at Francis. He looks a little like an old sage, sitting in the light and staring down at her, the look on his face daring her to defy him. “Yes, oh great one,” she answers, bowing to him. “We are who we are.”

Who we are, Ruby thinks. The words fall like stones in a pool, images and insight rippling from them in growing measure. Who we are, the words sounding in her head feel heavy and concrete, holding meaning that she can almost grasp. But the effort is too consuming, the thread too convoluted to understand.

“We are who we are,” Lisa says, watching her grandmother but aware of the others in the room. “And ultimately, we are who we want to be. We create our own lives, our own meaning.”

“Well,” Gary laughs, extending his hand to take Lisa’s, “who’s the existentialist now?”

They look at each other for a long moment, Lisa squeezing her father’s hand before letting it go.

“Speaking of who we are,” Francis stands, breaking the silence that shimmered in the light moments ago, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth, “how have you been feeling, Gary? I heard you were going for some tests.”

“Well, nothing conclusive yet, just tests and more tests. I’ve been having pain in my stomach and back, and some enzyme is showing up in my blood. It’s all pretty vague. There’s nothing they can put their finger on yet.”

“So they’ve ruled out any problem with your heart? Did you tell them about Dad’s heart problems?” Phoebe asks, moving to take her mother’s hand, the fingers still long and shapely, the nails neatly trimmed and polished. “That’s something you don’t want to fool around with, Gary.”

“Yeah, they took a full history. I told them about Dad’s heart attack, so that was the first thing they checked. Everything seems pretty good there.” Gary shrugs.

“You can never be too careful.” Phoebe’s voice is heavy with concern as she looks over and catches Gary’s eye.

“How old was Dad when he died? Sixty? I can’t remember.” Francis shakes his head.

No! John was only fifty-eight when he died, Ruby thinks, present for a moment. The image of John Grace is sharp in her mind, and she holds onto it for a moment, remembering their relationship, a lifetime of emotions. And then the image is gone, leaving only a vague impression in its wake, like a wave retreating from the sand.

“I think so. That’s what I told my doctor—fifty-nine or sixty.”

“It seems too young,” Phoebe answers.

“Yeah it does seem young, now. But Dad always seemed older somehow.”

“That was just because we didn’t see very much of him. Sometimes weeks and months would go by before we saw him. Then when we did see him it was all a hurried blur.” Francis’s voice is heavy with regret.

“Well, at least we have longevity on Mom’s side of the family.” Phoebe jokingly breaks the silence in the room.

“Yes, that’s true; her parents both had a good run for their money. I always remember their summer house in Maine. Whatever happened to it?” Gary asks, watching Phoebe as she pushes Ruby’s hair from her forehead, her fingers lingering against the smooth, white skin.

“I’m not sure.” Francis shakes his head. “It never stayed in the family. Maybe Gran sold it after Grandpa died.”

“There are a lot of mysteries to that family, don’t you think?” Phoebe draws her eyes from Ruby to Francis. “I mean, why did Grandpa Kenny leave Chicago? Mom always says he left ‘suddenly in ’24.’” Phoebe’s impersonation of Ruby is excellent. Gary coughs out a laugh. “Who knows? We’ve been speculating about that for years though, haven’t we?”

“What about Leland’s family?” Lisa asks, her eyes steady on her father’s.

“He had a couple of brothers. They were around a bit when we were young. But his family was from out east, so I don’t know much about them.” Gary looks to Francis.

“Yeah, Leland’s brothers were good guys.” Francis smiles, remembering. “They were younger than Leland, funny and a bit wild. They stayed with us in Toronto for a while before they headed out west. I was fourteen at the time, and I used to swipe their cigarettes.” Laughing, Francis continues, “I think they knew and left them out for me. Mom would have killed them.”

“And you, if she knew.” Phoebe smiles. “She was ahead of her time on that one. At a time when everyone smoked and thought nothing of it, Mom never liked it.”

“I think it had something to do with all the night clubs she sang in. I remember the smell of smoke from her gowns mingling with the smell of her perfume.” Gary answers.

“Chanel No. 5,” they all say, laughing at the knowledge that connects them, the shared memories of their childhood.

“The world’s most legendary fragrance,” Phoebe says, affecting Ruby’s voice and attitude as she repeats their mother’s famous line. She used to say it every time she applied the perfume.

Lisa, laughing along with her aunt and uncle and father, is struck by their camaraderie. She looks from one to the other: Francis, his scalp showing through his thinning hair in the fading light; Phoebe, face drawn with stress and fatigue; and Gary, the lines around his eyes pronounced with the weight he has lost. As she looks, somehow all of this dissolves, and they become the children they once were.

“So, big brother, you were stealing cigarettes when you were a kid. I never knew.” Gary shakes his head with fake disapproval at Francis, who shrugs and smiles.

“Well, you can’t talk, Gary. When Francis was swiping their cigarettes, you were swiping their change,” Phoebe admonishes, laughing at the look of shock on her brother’s face.

“I didn’t do that!” Gary answers, a little louder than he had intended.

“Yeah, Gary, you did. You were only a little guy, but you used to steal the change they left on the dresser in the back bedroom.” Francis laughs.

“No, I didn’t steal their money! I was probably only playing with it.” Gary is only half serious. “If I did take anything—and I am saying if—I was probably going to give it back.”

“Well, little brother, that’s your story. We remember it differently.” Phoebe leans over and pats Gary on the side of the cheek, then turns to Lisa. “He was quite the going concern, your father.

“Oh, I have no doubt.”

“Don’t believe anything they say, Lisa. They were always ganging up on me.”

“You mean we were always left taking care of you!” Francis corrects.

“It’s like Francis said, Mom was always rushing off to something or other, and we had to take care of baby Gary.”

“What about Leland?” Lisa asks, feeling protective of her father even though the teasing is in fun. “Wasn’t he around to take care of Dad?”

“Leland was around,” Francis answers. “Mom married Leland when I was ten, Phoebe was six, and your dad was around four, but Leland and Mom were always together. If she was singing, he’d be there. They were inseparable.”

“I think they had quite the love story,” Phoebe says, looking at Ruby. “Didn’t you, Mom? You and Leland—remember how he’d dance with you in the kitchen, always asking you to sing?”

“What was the song he always wanted her to sing, Phoebs?” Francis asks, his voice lost in nostalgia.

“‘I’ll Be Seeing You.’”

“We have it here on one of the CDs.” Lisa flips through the small stack of cases lying beside the CD player in the corner. Busy looking for the song, Lisa continues, her attention divided but anxious to know the answer to her next question. “Did you guys love Leland? Like a father?” Lisa keeps her head down, her eyes still on the list of songs.

“Yes, I think we did. Didn’t we?” Francis answers, looking from Phoebe to Gary for confirmation.

“I loved him.” Gary nods. “I remember him more clearly sometimes than I remember Dad. And he loved us.”

“Yes, Leland loved us,” Phoebe answers, her eyes focused on the past.

Lisa, looking from one to the other, breaks the silence that has settled around the room like water. “What did Leland die of?”

“What is it with you and all these questions about Leland James, honey?” Gary asks, shaking his head in bemused frustration.

“I, I don’t know…” Lisa stammers. “Nan was talking about him, and it kind of piqued my interest, I guess.”

“Did you find the song yet, Lisa?” Francis asks. “The doctor said that the stimulation will be good for her.”

“Okay, here it is.” Lisa lines up the track and pushes the button.

The music fills the room like liquid honey, the first few lines thin and almost tinny as Lisa adjusts the tone. “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places/ that this heart of mine embraces/ all day through…”

“Phoebe, are you crying?” Francis asks, moving to the windowsill and grabbing the box of Kleenex to hand to his sister.

“Yeah, silly me,” Phoebe answers, her voice hoarse with emotion.

“I think Mom recognizes the song,” Gary says with excitement. He walks over to Ruby and looks searchingly into her eyes.

Struggling up, as if from the depths of the ocean, Ruby’s mind clears. Her awareness sharpens with understanding, and suddenly she can identify who she is, where she is, and what is happening. The knowledge excites her. Words form as clearly as the music she hears, but they can go no further than her mind. Unable to articulate her thoughts, she lies back in frustration.

“Yes, Mom, that’s your song. Yours and Leland’s. Do you remember?” Phoebe says, her voice soothing, sensing her mother’s recognition and frustration.

My song and Leland’s, Ruby thinks, and my children. Yes, my children. I must tell you something. Ruby tries to force the words from her mind and into her mouth, but she cannot push them forward, cannot make the correct shapes or the right sound. Her efforts result only in a garbled, frightening croak of guttural noise.

“It’s okay, Mom. We’re here. It’s okay,” Francis says from beside Phoebe, his hand on Ruby’s arm in an attempt to calm her.

Francis. Ruby finds the word floating to the surface as she looks at her son. Then she turns to her daughter. Phoebe. There is more, more, she thinks, sensing the presence of others in the room. Turning her head and forcing her mind to concentrate, she finds Gary. Gary, I must tell you—you and your brother and sister.

“I think she recognizes you, Dad,” Lisa says above a whisper. Moving in beside Gary, she takes Ruby’s hand. “Nan, it’s me Lisa. Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Lisa, Lisa. Tell Gary, tell Gary….

“I think she wants to tell you something, Lisa.” Gary watches his mother’s efforts and touches Lisa’s shoulder as Ruby stares at her granddaughter, willing her thoughts forward, forcing the sounds in her mouth to fall into recognizable words. The effort is overwhelming, and tears of frustration slip from her eyes, adding to her confusion and to the tension in the room.

“What is it, Lisa? What do you think she wants to tell you?” Gary asks, the anxiety in his voice spilling across the room as Ruby’s efforts disintegrate into nonsensical sounds, flailing motions.

“Lisa, honey?” Gary asks again. “What is she trying to tell you?”

Lisa turns to her father and smiles, a look of understanding and resignation on her face. Turning back to Ruby, Lisa lifts her grandmother’s hand again. “I don’t think she wants to tell me anything, Dad. I think she wants me to tell you something.”

“Tell me something? Tell me what?”

Lisa looks from her grandmother to her father and then to Francis and Phoebe, only steps away across the bed, their faces pinched with tension. “I think she wants me to tell all of you.”

“Tell us what?” Phoebe asks, her voice fearful.

“Well, I … we were talking all the way here. Nan was telling me stories from her life, you know, and I … I don’t know how to say this. This is her story. I don’t even know if it’s true…. I mean, maybe she was confused. The paramedic and the doctor asked me if she seemed confused and I said no, but maybe she was…. Maybe it’s not true. I’m just not sure….”

“What did she say, Lisa?” Gary asks, his voice level.

Lisa, quickly glancing at Ruby, turns to face her father, forcing her eyes to meet his intent and serious gaze. “She said that you, Dad, are Leland’s son, not Grandpa Grace’s.”

Unsure if her father has heard her, Lisa waits, afraid to repeat herself, but more afraid of the silence that has opened up between them, leaving only the slow, sad sound of the music bleating from the corner.

“Dad.” Reaching out to Gary, Lisa continues. “Dad, she was confused.”

Gary, feeling his daughter’s hand on his arm, its pressure pulling him back to the room , turns to Lisa and exhales a short, forced breath. Then he smiles from the corner of his mouth and turns to look at Ruby, whose frustration of moments ago has dissipated like mist in the morning, leaving her limp and lifeless, her eyes closed with fatigue.

“She was confused, Dad,” Lisa says again, leaning her body toward him, longing to ease the pain and confusion she recognizes in his subtle smile, a boy’s smile, lost and confused.

“No, Lisa. She wasn’t confused,” Gary says, moving to the closest chair and sitting.

“I don’t know, Dad. She told me this just before the stroke. I think she was confusing everything—you know how she gets sometimes. She was even confusing me with Aunt Phoebe.”

“No, Lisa. She wasn’t confused.”

“But how can you be so sure. You don’t know for sure, do you?” Lisa asks, her voice loud with the distress she feels.

“It’s true, honey.” Gary glances at his brother and sister, and then looks back at Lisa. “Sometimes you’re told something,” he shrugs, then blinks rapidly, “and as soon as you hear it, you know it for what it is: the truth. Maybe I always knew it. Deep down, maybe I always knew it.”

“Gary?” Phoebe asks, breaking the silence that hangs in the air. Her eyes search her brother’s face. “Gary?”

When their eyes finally meet, Phoebe continues, her voice soft with understanding. “Leland died of cancer.”