Falling (27 page)

Was that Damian? asked Ingrid.

Yes, said Raymond.

Are you sure?

He’s right beside me here.

And he’s fine?

Just fine.

But we thought – we thought he was –

You’re welcome to come here and see him for yourself.

It’s what? Mid-morning? she asked. I’m not going to waste time trying to get a flight. I’ll drive straight there. I’ll leave now and that way I can be there around midnight, well, give or take – do you mind if I come? Wait, you’re at Cribbon’s? We used to rent a cottage there. It’s the place where – the place –

Yes, my house is at Cribbon’s, next to the old Boyd farmhouse. But flying might be easier for you.

The one beside the Boyd’s, the one with the green trim, yes, I know that house. You don’t mind? I won’t be able to see the green trim in the dark, though, will I? Oh God, Damian. Let’s see, I’ll bring something–what should I bring? I’ll bring some apples. We’ve got corn here – I’ll bring corn on the cob. Do you like corn on the cob? I’ll bring some.

Yes, but –

My name’s Ingrid, she added. Just so you know who I am.

Ingrid, said Raymond, think about flying here. You could fly from Hamilton. You’re in Niagara Falls? That’s a very long stretch of driving.

Yes, but I can’t wait.

Well, it’s pretty lonely and it’s exhausting. Stay overnight somewhere. Stay in Edmundston if you can.

I can’t wait; I wouldn’t sleep at all. Would you tell me your name again? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten.

He told her.

Do I know you? she asked.

I don’t think we’ve ever met.

But are you sure it’s my son? Are you sure it’s Damian?

Yes, it’s Damian.

Raymond got Peter out of the tub and stood face to face with his son. What sort of storms went on in his mind? Raymond wondered. His body was not flaccid, it was firm. His penis hung between his legs: pinkish, pendent, and his pubic hair was dark and curled, but rather sparse. His hips were narrow but well-proportioned, and there was the slightest bit of extra flesh around the middle. Raymond had the same slight fleshiness.

He bent down to dry Peter’s feet and ankles with the towel, working his way up the legs. The calves were firmer than he expected. He dried the thighs and the chest, and turned his son around, gently, so he could dry his back. He passed the towel over the nodes of the spine, each one a hidden stone. He rubbed Peter’s hair, and the scent of the shampoo emanated from him. Clean and dry. Raymond helped him into his pyjamas, buttoning up the shirt.

Cecily came back and stood at the door, watching. Do you think he’ll sleep?

He won’t have any trouble sleeping.

They spoke in whispers, Raymond noticed. He took Peter to the room he’d had since he was a boy. Cecily turned on the lamp by the bed, the one that Peter had never wanted them to change. It gave off a warm, golden halo of light. There were hockey players skating around the shade after an elusive puck. Cecily drew up the sheets and blankets once Peter was in bed.

Goodnight, dear. She kissed him on the forehead.

Raymond turned off the lamp and they went down the hall to their own room, where they undressed without speaking and got into bed. For a time, both of them lay side by side, her thigh touching his. He felt desperately lonely, despite her nearness. Finally he heard her soft, breathy snoring, though it was hardly more than a murmur. He heard her inhalations, her exhalations. His heart was beating quickly, and he couldn’t seem to make it quieter. He couldn’t calm down. What he forced himself not to think about was how, soon, they would take their son out of the house where he’d grown up and settle him somewhere else, probably in a group home, where other people would take care of him. Each time his mind moved around the edges of that thought, tears came to his eyes. It was not to be borne.

It had been a long time ago, but the thought of Peter stayed with Raymond after he spoke to Ingrid on the phone. It stayed with him as he mowed the small lawn and raked it, as he weeded the little flower garden that was filled, once again, with Cecily’s gladioli, day lilies, and roses, just as if she were still there. As if she’d come around the side of the house to put away the gardening tools in the shed – there, there she was – with that large straw hat on her head.

All day Raymond had been busy, and he kept finding things to do in the evening. Now it was past midnight, nearly one o’clock, but he didn’t want to rest, and he didn’t want to sit and read. Damian had fallen asleep on the couch, his head against the worn curve of the armrest. His mouth was open. Max was tucked into a warm place by his legs, his heavy head on Damian’s thigh. It might be a long
time before the boy’s mother came. She’d be in the car; she’d probably put cobs of corn in a bag and slung it in the backseat, and now she would be wide awake, driving along a dark highway.

Raymond rose quietly and went to the door, taking his warm jacket from the hook. The keys jingled in the pocket, but not enough to rouse the two on the couch. He slid the door back and went outside.

The woman would come to meet her son and stay the night, and Damian would go away with her, and that would be the end of it. What would Raymond do? He’d go to Halifax, straight to the group home where Peter lived, and they’d have tea and misshapen cookies studded with orange and yellow Smarties. There would be a little conversation, initiated by Raymond. Then he’d go away.

He had walked along the path to the beach without paying attention, and now he stood looking up at the sky. It was aflame with rose-coloured light, and there was a band of pale green below. He watched the aurora borealis move and shift in the darkness, like the skirts of a flamenco dancer. He’d seen it several times before in October, but not in September: it could have been a gift or an omen. He wanted to show someone.

After the fifth treatment, when she tired easily, Cecily spent her mornings in the living room. Wrapped in the moss-green mohair blanket, she spent hours looking out at the ferns that had begun to poke up their heads in the rock garden. There were books beside her on the table, but she rarely picked up any of them. It was spring, and the last of the snow had melted away in the hollows. Chickadees and
slate-coloured juncos lighted on the birdfeeder, snatched a few seeds and flew away.

Raymond had been about to take her some tea one morning, but he’d paused between the dining room and the living room. She’d changed; she was so much thinner. Her hands rested on the green blanket, and the sunlight fell on them. He’d put on Bach’s
English Suites
for her, and it was clear and concise, yet sprightly too, like a curled fiddlehead. She would not live long. He realized this, and he could not make himself go forward. He could not go and give her the cup of tea. It didn’t matter if he lavished her with all the love and kindness in the world, she would still disappear.

She turned, with the cautiousness of people who are ill, and smiled at him. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he set down the tea and sat beside her. She reached over and he took her hand in both of his, wordlessly. She moved her hand inside his, not restlessly, but gently. It was as if she was trying to say all that could not be said. They stayed like that, her hand inside his two hands, until a raven in the white pine made a series of rasping croaks that sounded like steel wool rubbed against the inside of a pot.

He released her. She picked up her cup of tea and drank.

It seemed a long time before Ingrid arrived. Raymond went back to the house and made himself a cheese sandwich after the northern lights faded completely. He sat in the armchair, dozing, until he heard the car just after three o’clock in the morning. Max heard it too and jumped down from the couch, but Damian didn’t waken. Raymond went outside with Max, who promptly leapt up on Ingrid when she got out of the car.

Down, Max, said Raymond sternly. Down.

It’s all right. She held out her hand and he took it. I’m Ingrid.

You made it.

Yes. Can I see him? Is he here?

He’s just inside, sleeping.

I want to see him. I won’t wake him – I just need to know that it’s him.

They went up the stairs to the deck, where they could see Damian through the sliding door. She stood still, gazing at her son, fast asleep on the couch. The room was illuminated by the light from the reading lamp.

It
is
him, she whispered. He’s so much thinner. It’s been weeks, you know – it was early August when he disappeared.

Max made a low moan and scratched at the door; Raymond opened it and let him inside.

I can’t go in, she said. I’m so angry. I can’t.

You’ll be all right. He closed the door softly, with Max inside and the two of them outside. Max sat down, looking at Raymond with his head cocked inquiringly.

No, I can’t. I’m afraid of what I’ll say to him – it was awful not knowing. You’ve no idea. You can’t imagine.

No.

I’ll – do you have any cigarettes? Not that I smoke. I don’t smoke.

I just smoke a pipe. But come inside; you’re shaking.

Yes, you’re right. Look at that.

Here, come inside. We don’t have to wake him.

He put his hand out to her and she took it, stepping into the room. She was tentative, as if any movement she made might break the spell, but then she went forward and sat in the armchair. Her whole body was alert and tense, and her
hands gripped the armrests of the chair, though she sat with apparent calm.

Raymond filled the kettle and plugged it in, but none of these slight movements, with their accompanying noises, wakened Damian. Max’s claws clicked on the kitchen floor as he followed his master out of the house.

When Raymond came back from the car with Ingrid’s big canvas bag, she was sitting in exactly the same posture. He unplugged the kettle and made some tea, putting sugar and milk in a cup without asking what she took in it. He set it on the table near her, where she could reach it. She looked up at him, hardly noticing, and turned back to Damian, stretching out her hand as if to touch him, but her hand stopped in mid-air before she drew it back, and Raymond studied her. There were wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, which, like her son’s, were fringed with long lashes. Her nose was finely moulded, and her lips were full, though there were lines around her mouth. Her hair was silky and white; she had drawn it back into a ponytail. He could see how she must have been when she was young.

I don’t want to wake him, she murmured.

She wasn’t drinking her tea.

Have you eaten? he asked.

She shook her head.

He motioned for her to come to the kitchen, and she got up quietly. Raymond heated up some carrot soup that he’d made the day before. It was still all right, he thought, and he put it in a blue pottery bowl and took it to the kitchen table. Ingrid sat down, put her hands around it, and inhaled the steam.

Oh, he said, I forgot to get you a spoon.

He was a little flustered. When had a woman last set foot inside his house? He got the spoon and gave it to her.

Thank you.

I have some twelve-grain bread if you’d like.

No, thank you.

She said thank you the way a girl might say it.

This is very good. It’s good by itself. She glanced at Damian. I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t believe it. I’m still shaking.

Raymond didn’t know whether to sit or to stand. He felt clumsy.

Does he have any idea what he put us through?

I don’t think so, said Raymond.

I have to call Roger. And I’ll have to call Greg. The expression on her face changed swiftly. I’m furious, you know. I’m furious and I’m relieved. Imagine having no idea what happened to your son, and thinking – thinking day and night – that he might have committed suicide. And then he’s in front of you, right as rain.

He wasn’t exactly right as rain when I found him, said Raymond. He wasn’t doing so well.

What do you mean?

He seemed sick. He was weak, physically. And distant – I couldn’t reach him.

He hasn’t been himself since his sister died.

But he was troubled in a way that –

In what way?

She looked so childlike and trusting that he hesitated.

Troubled in spirit and mind, thought Raymond, recalling Peter. I’d go easy on him, he said gently.

But to think he was alive and I didn’t know – we didn’t know.

Raymond saw that she’d eaten only half the bowl of soup. Her hand, holding the spoon, was trembling.

She smiled at him. I’m elated, you know, and a bit giddy. You’ll have to excuse me.

It’s all right – you have reason.

When he was born, he was so small, she said. Well, I suppose he was the right size and everything. He was even long for a newborn; I think he was twenty-one inches long. But to me he was so small, and so perfect. He still had some white, cheesy stuff on his skin – vernix, I think it is – though the nurses had cleaned him. They’d swaddled him in white flannel, striped with blue at the edge. I remember that clearly. He was the size of a loaf of a bread.

I remember that. With Peter.

You have a son?

Yes.

Then you know what it’s like. That moment, at the beginning of things. It’s as if you can see further.

Yes, he said. Yes.

It’s not like anything else. She put the spoon up to her lips. Oh, I’m so tired – I’m not making sense. I can’t explain it.

It makes sense.

I thought there would never be another moment like that again.

She stopped speaking for a long time; she ate her soup. It was no longer hot, but he didn’t offer to reheat it for her.

Those sorts of moments, really, you think you’ve lost the capacity for them, she added.

He extended his hand to take her empty bowl.

Thank you very much, she said.

Well, soup like that is easy to make.

No. She put her hand on his arm without seeming to be aware she was doing it. I can’t tell you. To be given something back, something like this, well, I can’t begin to tell you.

He didn’t know what to do with her gratitude. Just a minute, he said. He went down the hall to his bedroom and returned with a roll of papers under his arm.