Perdita (2 page)

She ran her eyes rapidly across my face. “Do you—do you have a heart condition? Or anything like that?” she asked
faintly.

I was a little taken aback by her question, but confirmed that I was in excellent health. Then she carefully pulled open the top drawer of the bureau next to her and stared down into it. “You rely a great deal on people's diaries and letters in your writing,” she remarked, drawing out several small, leather-bound books. “All those veterans—and their wives and families—they must have trusted you very much to give you their war journals and letters.” She passed two of the books over to me, watching my expression
intently.

I took the volumes from her and gingerly lifted the cover of the top one. The pages were filled with handwritten
entries—

“I'd like you to read my diaries,” she said eagerly. “And then perhaps we could ask Perdita to come to
you.”

“Miss Brice,” I interjected, “really, I'm just here
to—”

“I was turning nineteen when I began the diary you just opened,” she continued eagerly. “That's the one you are to read first. It was over one hundred and fifteen years ago, but I can still remember everything so vividly. That is where my Perdita began. It was that summer when the Bay knew it could no longer treat me as a child…” Her voice trailed off, and I could see the faint shimmer of tears in her
eyes.

Just then I heard Farley barking downstairs; he sounded unusually excited. “That's my dog, Miss Brice.” This time I put the diaries down on the table beside her. “I think I'd better go get
him.”

“Wait! I'd like to—to compensate you for reading them, but you see my nephew's wife, Ava, took all my money, every cent of
it.”

“Don't worry about that,” I said quickly, picking up the two volumes
again.

“It was quite a lot of money. I won't tell you how much, because you probably wouldn't believe me.” Miss Brice leaned forward earnestly. “George understood, you see. Somehow he knew, and he was very worried about what would happen if I outlived Allan. He even asked Andrew to take care of me…” Her eyes suddenly narrowed, and then her face hardened. “But Ava…George could never have anticipated what she has done. She told everyone that I had hallucinations. She said I would be put in a mental hospital if I didn't sign those papers. And she told the lawyer I was an impostor—that I wanted to defraud George's
estate.”

“An
impostor?”

Marged took up her scarf, placing it lightly on her head, and then trained her remarkable eyes on mine. “Of course no one expected me to live this long. But none of them know I've still got my birth certificate. Even if no one believes me—even if
you
don't—it doesn't change the fact that
I
am
Marged
Brice
.”

She waited for me to
speak.

I hesitated. “Of course I'd be happy to look at your diaries, Miss Brice—I mean Marged. But really, the main reason I'm here is to look into the record of your
age.”

“Oh, please! Can't you see I'm asking for help! I've never had to say that to a stranger before, and believe me it doesn't come easily to me. But I
must.”

Again I hesitated for a split second—and then half kicking myself, I slipped the two journals into my
briefcase.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you.” She stretched out a pale hand toward me. “I knew you would,” she continued softly. “You see, I asked my trees about
you.”

“Your trees,” I echoed vaguely. Farley's barking was growing more
frenzied.

“Yes. But I want to know—and you must tell me. What would
your
trees say about you?” she demanded. “Would
your
trees tell me to trust
you?”

Now the light from her eyes was so piercing that I almost winced. “Oh, I think my trees would give me a good reference,” I replied, surprised at how easily the answer
came.

“You'll come back—soon? You'll come back to see me soon?” she asked, withdrawing her
hand.

“Yes, of course,” I promised. “It'll probably take me a few days, but I'll come as soon as I've read your diaries. Why don't we say by the end of the
week?”

“I shall
trust
you
, then,” she whispered, pulling her scarf down over her face. “I shall trust to your
return.”

“Edna, you can't be
serious.” I was trying to keep my tone patient. “There's no way she could be the Marged Brice of that birth
certificate.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Edna got up to open the window and then furtively looked around for any of the staff nurses. “They think I've quit,” she
explained.

“Don't worry, I won't give you away.” I took the chair by her desk and watched her take a few hurried
puffs.

“Garth, I know what you're going to say. I did the math, too. If it's hers, it says she's one hundred and thirty-four years old. Impossible, right?”

For the second time I explained how extremely unlikely it was. We went back and forth with that for a while, Edna insisting that it was at least
possible
for a human being to live to 134. At last I decided to change the subject; had a psychologist assessed Miss Brice
yet?

“You mean because of her so-called hallucinations.” She took a long drag. “That's why she's been put in a nursing home. We're to keep an eye on
her.”

I reminded her that the Clarkson wasn't set up to do
that.

Edna gave me a withering look. “Don't even think of suggesting a transfer. That's out of the question. This isn't the big city, Garth. They'll cut my funding if I don't keep my beds filled.” She looked out the window
gloomily.

“How did Miss Brice end up here?” I asked. “Is she from the
area?”

“I'm really not supposed to talk about this.” Edna stubbed out her cigarette. “But it would be a relief to tell you, because the whole thing has been a bit
weird.”

Edna recounted how, ten days earlier, a very “swanky-looking” limousine had dropped off Miss Brice. The “whole thing” had happened pretty fast. A lawyer had contacted her on behalf of the family. He had the papers ready and said the family didn't want to wait, that they'd take a bed if one were available. Any bed, but it had to be in a private room. The lawyer had also said it would be best if she were kept away from the other
residents.

“Why?” I asked. “She seems pretty harmless to me—maybe a little
eccentric.”

“She's not violent or anything like that.” Edna insisted that the Clarkson would never have taken her if that were the case. The lawyer explained that Miss Brice sometimes had hallucinations and that she could become very upset during these episodes. “But that's not what bothers me,” Edna explained. “After we got her all settled upstairs, she made some peculiar
comments.”

“Such
as?”

“Well…she suggested she's been forced to come
here.”

I reminded Edna that she probably got that kind of thing all the
time.

“Yes, but I've gotten to know Miss Brice a little. She won't say much about it, but it seems she's been taken care of by her family for a very long time—like fifty years. At first a relative named Allan took care of her and then his son, Gregory, took over. Gregory just died, and now his widow, Ava, has power of attorney for her. I've gathered that Ava and Marged don't get
along.”

I asked her what she meant by that. Edna frowned and put her glasses back on, blinking at me like an owl. “It's those hallucinations. So far, we've seen no evidence of them, but the lawyer implied they've become so bad that no caregiver will stay on. I think that's why Ava wants Marged in a nursing
home.”

“Did you discuss Marged Brice with Ava
directly?”

Edna shook her head. “There's more, Garth. The really weird part is that the family's identity is to remain strictly confidential. I even had to sign an agreement about it. No one here is supposed to know who sent her to the home. Even I don't know all the details because most of my dealings were with this
lawyer.”

“Then who brought Miss Brice
here?”

“I already told you.” Edna was growing a little cranky. “She came alone in a limo. There was the driver, of course, but he was totally uncommunicative. He wouldn't even carry that heavy trunk of hers
upstairs.”

I couldn't believe Marged Brice's paperwork didn't contain some information about her; surely an age was listed
somewhere?

Edna just scowled. “The letter from the lawyer says the lady upstairs was born May 1, 1920—so she's supposed to be ninety-three years old. But that's just his letter. There was no official document. When I asked him about it, I got a long-winded spiel about how it wasn't necessary when a person's expenses are covered by private
funds.”

“I'm assuming the name is the same in the lawyer's
letter.”

She lit another cigarette. “It's Margaret Brice in the letter. But on the phone, the lawyer kept referring to her as Marged. When I pointed this out, he just laughed it off—saying that Margaret and Marged are really the same
name.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The two names were pretty close, and practically anyone might mistake
them.

“By the way, the family also gave the Clarkson a generous donation,” Edna said. “But I'm not supposed to disclose the amount,” she added hurriedly. “It's a large amount, and believe me, we can use it. But I don't like it, Garth. All the conditions they've insisted on—it just doesn't smell
right.”

I was silent for a few seconds. “I wonder where she got that birth certificate, then?”

“She refused to have it put in her file, but I'm positive it's an authentic document. It must belong to somebody.” Edna was now avoiding my eyes. “Miss Brice told me a little about her family. She said she moved to the Bruce Peninsula when she was a baby. Her father—she always refers to him as ‘Tad.' That's Irish, isn't
it?”

“I believe ‘Tad' is Welsh for ‘Dad.'”

“Miss Brice says her Tad had a one-hundred-acre farm north of Wiarton, but it was destroyed in a fire. After that her father became the lightkeeper at Cape Prius out on Georgian
Bay.”

I sat up.
Cape
Prius
. My cottage was about half a mile down the coast from the light station. A local community group had recently taken over the light tower and was now running it as a heritage
site.

Edna looked down at some notes on her desk. “I called up the curator of that museum they have at the lighthouse. Hugh Brice was hired in 1888, and he lived there as lightkeeper with his wife for more than thirty years. Mr. Brice had a sister, Alis, and she came over from Wales to live with them. Alis married a local man, and then her husband, Gil Barclay, became the assistant lightkeeper. But more to the point, the Brices had only one child—a daughter they named Marged.” Then she stared at me pointedly. “You saw that birth certificate,” she
hinted.

“What are you getting
at?”

“I can't explain it. It's just a nagging feeling I have, but I think she might really be that Marged Brice. I mean, the Marged Brice of the birth
certificate.”

I laughed. “Edna, is that tobacco you're smoking? We've been over all that. I don't think it's even physically possible for a person to live to one hundred and thirty-four.”

“But did you see her face? I've never seen anything like it
before!”

“Look.” I adopted a more serious tone. “Don't you think it's more likely that there's been some sort of
mistake?”

“But she insists she's the one and only Marged
Brice.”

“Maybe she's suffering from memory loss,” I speculated. “Or maybe she's confusing her own identity with her grandmother's, or something like that. Sounds like she might have
dementia.”

“I don't think so.” Edna shook her head firmly. “I'm not a doctor, but I've seen all kinds of dementia. She forgets things here and there, just as you or I might, but she's not disoriented the way people with dementia are.” Then she laughed cryptically. “Well,” she threw back, “what do you make of our mystery
woman?”

I waited for a minute, choosing my words carefully. “I think you're understandably excited by the idea of having the world's oldest living person here at the Clarkson. But I'll be frank with you. There's no one at the Longevity Project who would go for this. A birth certificate without any other supporting documentation is not a credible
lead.”

“Do you really think so?” She sighed. “But what if she really
is—”

I shook my head emphatically. “The LP requires us to verify a person's age based on very strict guidelines. There have to be at least three official documents that correlate a person's age and name, and that's just for starters. Then there's positive identification by living sources and the census
data.”

“But,” Edna said, her eyes beginning to glint. “What if
you
investigated? You would be able to clear up this whole thing. I know you would! You're a historian—a distinguished university professor. You would know how to figure out who she really
is.”

I stood up, annoyed with myself for getting trapped so easily. “You know I'm trying to finish a book this summer, and I've
got—”

“But I don't think it would take all that long, do
you?”

She was probably right, but I wasn't quite ready to throw in the towel. “Why don't you just ask someone in her family? There's got to be someone in her family who could clear up this question of her
age.”

She shook her head vigorously. “That's not an option. I'm not to get in touch with anyone in the family—absolutely not. I'm only to notify them of her death, but otherwise, there's to be no contact with
them.”

“That's pretty
strange.”

“Garth.” Edna looked me straight in the eye. “Just think of what this might mean for the home. We're facing closure, as you well know. But the government wouldn't dare shut us down. They'd never do it if we had the world's oldest living person right here under our roof!” Again she hesitated, watching my reaction. “Couldn't you just try to find out for us? Couldn't you just try? It's only that—I trust you. We all trust you
here.”

We both heard Farley scratching at the door, and I got up to let him in. I'd given him a good scolding for the ruckus he'd made, and he gave me an injured look. He was still covered in dust and what looked like cobwebs, and immediately waddled over to Edna for sympathy. She seemed not to notice and immediately scooped him up, beginning to rub his fat, little
belly.

“Would you do it—for us? For the home, I mean?” she asked, fondling Farley's ears. She had taken off her glasses, and now I had two sets of large, imploring eyes trained on me. Just then Farley gave one of his awful sneezes, and Edna was left spattered in an unsightly
ooze.

“Okay,” I said, hastily handing her a box of Kleenex. “I'll tell you what—I'll look into this. But I'm going to have to do it my way. I'll need to know the name of the family who put her
here.”

“Stewart,” she blurted out. “I know I shouldn't tell you, but the family are
the
Stewarts. You know, the really rich ones—the Montreal banking
family.”

“The family of the painter, George
Stewart?”

“Yes, I believe so. But remember, you didn't hear it from
me.”

I stared back at her in surprise. Now why, I wondered, would the celebrated Stewart family shuffle an elderly woman off to a nursing home on the Bruce Peninsula? And hadn't Miss Brice mentioned a George during our
interview?

“And you didn't get Miss Brice's file from me either.” Edna handed me a folder. “I think you should take a look at the paperwork that came with her. If you start asking around about her, you're only repeating what Miss Brice told you herself. Agreed?”

I snapped my fingers for Farley to come
down.

Edna gave him an affectionate hug before setting him on the floor. “You've been a naughty boy this morning, haven't you? He's been chasing squirrels in the garden
again.”

“At least he wasn't bothering that unauthorized feline of yours. It was a very good thing I didn't bring him upstairs with me, because Cookie was hiding out in Miss Brice's
room.”

Edna looked at me quizzically. “But Cookie couldn't have been up there. I took her to the vet yesterday. They're boarding her for a few days while she has some tests
done.”

“That's strange—” I started to
say.

Just then her phone
rang.

“Hello—yes?”

She rolled her eyes and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “It's the health inspector. You won't forget to bring back that
file?”