Moondance (45 page)

What was this life?
her pearl grey chorus asked. Sophie was motionless. It was peaceful here. Lighter than the earth. Less exhausting. From this vantage point, her life had never seemed so clear.

“I was learning about trust.”

And?

“Acceptance. I didn’t have to lose Gregg, that was my choice. He could have come to term. That was our original contract.”

And?

“I wish I could have done more.”

You had a very strong desire
.

“Yes.”

And now?
Sophie thought about her plans for Althea, the Chauncy magic, the desire for control that had consumed her life. All so unnatural.

“Equally I have desire and I have no desire.”

Suddenly, Sophie was being pulled up, like the sky was a vacuum. The light wasn’t light, it was like rays of energy, a hybrid of sun and water, shifting, gentle and diffuse. Like a dissipating fog, the energy field cleared and she surveyed a new scene in front of her: three figures.
One she knew.
What time was it?
she thought.
What year?

Time has no place here
, came the answer. She watched as the
smallest figure grew. A shiny translucent casing appeared, encircling the figures, moving with them, a myriad of colors shifting like a bubble of gasoline.
Will you do this?
The description came in a download flash, a living spider web of energy containing trillions of fragments of information, memories, experiences, emotions, agreements, infinitely complex.
It wouldn’t be easy: she knew that
.

It would be perfect.

Yes
, Sophie said, without hesitation, and as she did, it was as if a large hand nudged her forward, and her soul penetrated the casing, becoming part of something new.

It was more splendid than she could have ever imagined.

chapter 76

AS ALTHEA EMERGED FROM the train at Union station, the feeling of dread she had, had dissipated. She felt lighter, more energetic than she had in a long time. At the Carousel Bakery in the St. Lawrence market, she bought a breakfast sandwich of egg, cheese and back bacon. Inside the side entrance, a thin man with a deeply lined face, gentle eyes and a rich, somber voice, played guitar and sang. She dropped two dollars into his hat on the way out.

As she entered White Light’s offices, it was silent. The door to Vince’s office, and to the boardroom were closed. Her voice mail blinked. On her chair was a pile of blue file folders. Slightly annoyed, she moved the files, put them on the desk beside her, and turned on her computer. She checked her email and felt rather than heard someone coming up behind her. Then a chuckle she recognized.

“Sorry about the files.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“How did your writing go?”

“Great, thanks for asking.”

“Did Stacy get a hold of you?”

“No, what’s up?”

Althea kept her eyes on her email. She didn’t get an answer right away. She looked over at Michael Foster, a man who had taken over White Light’s accounting when Peter Wu retired a year ago. He made the jump to working on his own, the same year his marriage broke up.
My ex thought I was insane, Michael said. The truth is, if I didn’t get out of the corporate world, I think I might have gone insane
. Althea liked him. More than that, she identified. Michael’s usually mischievous moss green eyes now stared at her blankly.

“Althea, there’s no easy way to say this.”

“Okay.”

“The hospital’s been trying to reach you. Your mother is dead.” The lightness she had felt inside walking to work was gone, replaced by pain that was thin sharp, winding, a heaviness that locked her in her chair. Michael faded into a foggy blur.
Not today. Oh no, not today. She should have been there for her. There was so much more to say
. The pain seared in her chest and she couldn’t breath.
She thought she was prepared
.

“But I just saw her —”
It was always up to you
. It had been Sophie’s voice she had heard on the train. Althea had known. On some level, she had known.

“Althea? You okay?” An indescribable ache settled into her chest, her body, her legs. The tears were coming, and she didn’t want that to happen. Not here. Not yet. She needed to be alone, because when they came, it would be like a tsunami. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

“Yes, um, no ... I don’t know.” She fought the grey behind her eyes. Her whole body was numb. She was expecting this of course, she had known for months. She thought she’d be okay. She felt tears welling up. Sophie’s voice:
You can never really prepare for it
. Michael fumbled for a tissue and handed it to her.

“Crap, I knew it was close, I knew it. Why didn’t I stay there with her, I just came from the hospital. Fuck.” She twisted the tissue in her hand, picked another one, looked up, as if the ceiling tiles held answers.

“I’m sorry Althea.” Michael lightly stroked her shoulder and she leaned into him. He smelled like soap. She felt small and lost.

“Thanks.” she said.

“You should go.”

“But I just —”

“I’ll drive you.” Leaning on him, she stood up on wobbly legs. She held his arm, and he carried her knapsack. In the elevator, Althea shuddered as another deadly wave of disbelief passed over her, the filaments of reality sinking in one at a time, like nails in plywood.
Sophie gone. No more barbeques. No more holidays. Sophie would never read her book. She should have stayed, should have been there. It wasn’t fair.

In the lobby, Michael guided her to the convenience store inside their building and paid for two cheese bagels. The clerk, a slight, smiling Korean man who knew everyone in the building by name, threw in an apple and banana for free. She took the sandwich.

Michael backed out the lobby door, leaning against it so she could pass. They walked to his car in silence, her heart a growing mass of grief, her mind unstable.
She was the last one in her family now. She had no one anymore. No more Sophie. She should have been there.

As Michael drove, she stared out the window.
Sophie gone
. She gripped her tissue. She thought of Celia, traveling in Africa, and wished that she could call her. Michael turned on some music: Michel Petruc-ciani. Five minutes later, he turned north on Jarvis, and into a Shell station.

“I need to get some gas. Would you open the glove compartment? I’m looking for a black leather wallet.” Althea opened the compartment which was cluttered with paper, and passed him the folder which rested on top.
All of Sophie’s post-it notes. She used to tease Sophie about them. No more
.

“Thanks.” Michael got out of the car. A black lab bounded toward him. Michael stooped to pet it. Althea recognized the dog. She came here sometimes. Michael pumped the gas, and Althea watched him as he went into the office to pay. He talked animatedly to a short, olive-skinned man who laughed at him. Her memory rippled, like déjà vu.
In this car. In this station. Remember?

She shook her head. In her seat, she shifted position, and tried to close the glove compartment, which stuck. A piece of lined paper that looked as if it had been dropped in a mud puddle fell onto her lap. She picked it up, examined it. Michael’s handwriting, she assumed, from margin to margin. The door opened, letting in a cold rush of air.

“Where to now?” he asked. She gave him directions.

“Put this back for me?” He handed her the wallet. She held up the muddy notepaper.

“This, too? Looks like it’s been through a war,” she said. Michael flushed.

“Yeah, you could say that. Leave it on the dash, I’ll get it later.” She put the paper on the dashboard and frowned. He was avoiding her eyes. Petrucciani played. A half hour later, they pulled into the hospital parking lot. Michael turned off the ignition and turned to her. Althea leaned on the car door. The heaviness inside her was excruciating.
She
was all alone now. She wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.

“Listen, I can come with you. Or I’ll come to pick you up later if you want.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take a cab. I don’t know where I’ll be.” She moved to get out of the car. As he spoke, he glanced down and his voice was soft.

“Or if you want to talk or something, you can call. I’ve lost people close to me. It was really hard, it hurt, so I understand.”

“I don’t know if —”

“That’s cool.” She leaned into the car door. He touched her arm.

“Althea, wait for a second. This is probably the worst time, but I’m just going to say it.” It was nice of him to drive her, but Althea couldn’t
listen right now.
What could he possibly want to say to her?
The tears were rising up now, gaining weight. Her lip trembled, and she pressed the tissue to her mouth, the first tears sliding hotly down her cheeks. She sat silent.

“I don’t know where to start. Okay I’m taking you back a few years ...” Althea nodded, sniffling, wanting him to finish.

“You had a break-down on the side of the road, you were really upset about something. A kind stranger offered a hand.” Althea remembered. Her head was beginning to throb.

“That was you.”

“Yes.”

“That was one of the worst days of my life,” she said. “Until today.” Althea blew her nose, tasted the flow of salt. Her mind was dull. Everything was coming at her in slow motion. Even his words had a syrupy feel to them.
She had to go
.

“I know. Mine too. There’s more —”
The gas station
. Althea looked at the dashboard, at the muddy notepaper, back at Michael.

“Yeah, I wondered if you remembered. It’s
the
muddy notepaper, you know. Amongst my
plethora
of personal neuroses, I also hoard things.”

“Don’t —”

“Don’t make me stop now. I’m on my way to
total
humiliation here.” Althea stared, not knowing what to say. She felt so tired.
Sophie
.

“I saw your ad on the internet. I came close to answering it, then there you were at White Light.” Althea hid her face, the tsunami mounting. Sophie had placed the original ad.
No more Sophie
. He took her hand which was limp.

“I like you, Althea, there I’ve said it. In a really big way. And if you ever, or when you ...” Althea leaned away from him, her shoulder against the car door. Her words came out in sobs.

“This is way too much right now Michael. Way too much.” Althea’s fingers traced her temples. Her world was spinning. She felt disoriented. She gulped air: she needed to get a hold of herself. For a while, at least. She had so much to do.
The last one left
.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Michael stared at her levelly, his face soft and open.
She had to get out of there
.

“I’ve got to go,” she mumbled.

chapter 77

Three months later

ALTHEA SAT IN THE rattan chair in Sophie’s solarium alone, listening to jazz. The wood stove crackled. Albert’s solo rose in a swell of sound, his voice near.
I’m always close, wee one
.

“I know you are.”
Never really alone
.

The kitchen timer went off, and Althea basted a roast chicken, stuffed with basil, rosemary and lemon. She lifted the lid off a pot on the stove, peeking inside, and turned the element off for now. She poured herself a glass of wine.

“This one’s for you, Sophie.” She stopped, tried again. “This one’s for you —
Mom
.” She held the wine glass up, and took a sip. She had cried a great deal over the past few months, and the tears still bubbled up at times. Sometimes, when her phone rang, she thought it might be Sophie. Sometimes, when something happened, she wanted to call Sophie to tell her. The biggest part of her, however, was through with tears. She didn’t want to cry anymore. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to dance.

In her will, Sophie had left Althea the house, some modest savings and some telephone stocks that she had been buying up decades before Althea was born. Seems Sophie
had
kept a few secrets to herself. It was more than Althea would have guessed — enough to take some time off to publish her book. And start her second.

At the moment, Althea still lived in the upstairs apartment, though she used Sophie’s kitchen to make meals. Since finishing the first draft of her book, she had begun to cook again. It had to happen. Cooking was a tradition in this house. She had also begun a more important search: the search for Harlan Bowles, her natural father. The doorbell rang.

A courier deliveryman stood on her veranda, holding a package with a red envelope attached, hand-addressed to Althea in graceful, even handwriting. The package smelled faintly of incense, and its contents shifted slightly. She signed for it, and looked at the return address, frowning: Louisiana. She didn’t know anyone in Louisiana. When the tap on her shoulder came, she jumped and turned. Michael Foster stood on her doorstep with a lopsided grin, holding two grocery bags.