Somewhere In-Between (33 page)

“Listen to me, Ian,” she says gently. “I don't want to leave the ranch, or you. But what I can't do anymore, what I won't do, is continue on without being able to share Darla's memory. Isolation is more than a place. We can't go on together, out in the Chilcotin, or anywhere else, without Darla's memory being a part of who we are.”

Ian slumps back in his chair, dropping his head into his hands. Julie reaches over and strokes his hair. “We need to celebrate her life, the time she spent with us, instead of dwelling on her death. I need to be able to say her name out loud, without fear that the reminder is too painful, for you, or for me.”

Ian raises his head, his face a mask of anguish. “I don't need reminding,” he chokes. “I go to bed every night with her name in my mind and wake up every morning seeing her face.” He brushes away a tear. “And every time I look at you, I am reminded that if I had been there that night, if I had not made such a stupid meaningless choice, Darla would still be alive.”

“It wasn't your fault,” she says. “I'm sorry, so sorry that I held onto my anger at you for so long. Anger is easier to deal with than grief, I guess. But it wasn't anyone's fault. Not yours, not mine, not Levi Johnny's. Nothing any of us did would have changed what happened. I know that now. Your being home, or not being home, the door being locked or unlocked, made no difference. Darla made me see that.

“We need to move on, Ian, for Darla's sake, for ourselves, we have to let go of all the useless remorse. Our love for Darla didn't die with her.
That
we can hang onto.”

Ian pushes himself up and takes Julie in his arms. His face pressed against hers, he whispers into her hair, “I miss her so much.”

“I know,” she replies, and for the first time the tears she feels flowing down her cheek belong to them both.

There is so much more to say. But now is not the time. Perhaps someday she will be able to tell Ian about how their daughter—a wiser, older, more complete Darla, she realizes now—convinced her to make the choice to live. Through the clearing fog of memory, she recalls begging to see her one more time, and an answer coming from somewhere in the darkness, ‘look into the light.' And when she did, the pinpoint of light grew and Darla appeared. Wearing the costume from the play that night, a yellow rose pinned into her hair, she had smiled so peacefully that Julie felt the lightness of acceptance replacing the hot stone of sorrow she had carried for so long. A dream? Perhaps. But the promise she made to Darla within that dream, she will keep—the promise to return to life, not simply to endure, but to live with purpose.

With a start, she tries to sit up but there is no energy in her body. She reaches for Ian's hand, asking, “How did I get here?”

“Virgil and Levi,” he says. His fingers interlock with hers, he explains how Virgil's dog had become so agitated by what they thought was a pack of wolves howling, that they had followed him out to the road and spotted her tracks in the snow. They took the van to investigate, and Pup's howling had led them to where she lay, half in and half out of the frigid water. With Virgil on one end of a rope, Levi had tied the other end around his waist and crawled across the ice to her.

She has no memory of being pulled out, carried to the van, or of Virgil stripping her of her wet clothes to wrap her in a sleeping bag.

“Your body temperature was so low, the hypothermia so set in, that you barely had a heartbeat by the time they found you,” Ian says, his voice catching. “Virgil crawled into the sleeping bag with you to warm you while Levi drove back to the house.”

“I called the Champion ranch. Thank God your friend Terri was home,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair. “Twenty minutes later she landed her ski-plane in front of the house. You were in the hospital emergency room less than an hour after you were pulled from the lake.”

As the story unfolds Julie realizes that she owes her life to the three of them, especially Virgil and Levi. Levi? She owes him even more. She struggles to sit up again. “Where are they? I need to speak to Levi.”

“What you need is rest.”

“No! I have to see him. It can't wait. We've got to find him.”

“Don't worry, he's right here—out in the waiting room with Virgil and Terri. You can thank them all later.”

“Please, Ian,” she begs, “go out and ask them to come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it's important. It can't wait. Please.”

Reluctantly, Ian gives into the urgency in her voice. Before he leaves, she asks him to raise the head of the bed. She needs to be able to look into the boy's eyes.

Waiting nervously she begins to question her own memory. How was it possible for Darla to have told her so much in the brief time she was under the ice? Was it nothing more than a dream, an illusion brought on by her oxygen-deprived brain? She tries to recall the exact words, the sound of Darla's voice as she spoke to her. Spoke? No, not really, her voice had not come from outside of Julie, but from somewhere within. It had all seemed so real moments ago, but now she is beginning to doubt. Had she only imagined it all?

And then in a moment of clarity it comes to her that it doesn't really matter. Levi is in trouble, she saw that the moment he walked into Virgil's cabin. Whether she only imagined her encounter with Darla or not, she will keep her promise to release him from his.

Ian returns to her side, and right behind him the boy appears between the opening in the curtains, followed by Virgil and Terri. The strain of the day's events etched on their faces, they stand timidly at the foot of her bed.

Terri is the first to speak. “Well, Girl, that's not exactly how I planned to take you on your first flight over the Chilcotin.”

“Next time I promise I'll stay awake.”

“Darn tootin,'” Terri replies, failing to conceal the catch in her throat.

Julie leans back on her pillow. “Thank you,” she says, looking from one to the other. “Thank you all for my life.” Her gaze rests on Virgil's face. She is unable to read if the expression in his dark eyes is relief, or exhaustion. “The healing circle?” she asks him. “Is it possible to do one here? Now?”

Following his mute acknowledgement they all join hands around her bed. Julie meets the boy's tortured eyes. She smiles softly at him and says, “I see you, Levi Johnny, friend of Darla's.”

The heady aroma of roast turkey and mincemeat pie permeates the ranch house air. The haloed sparkle of multicoloured Christmas tree lights shine from the darkened living room as Julie carries the glistening, oversized bird into the dining room. She sets the heavy platter down ceremoniously in front of Ian—who is wearing a walking cast now—at the head of the table.

“Just a second, everyone,” she says, rushing over to the corner where she has set up her tripod. Ignoring the mock groans, she focuses the camera and then quickly takes her seat. The delayed flash goes off and the chatter around the table resumes. Julie catches the reflection of the scene in the plate-glass windows, just as she had on their first night in this house.
How things have changed since then.
As if reading her thoughts her sister, Jessie, winks at her, while her brother-in-law, Barry, banters with Ian about the correct way to carve a turkey. Julie smiles and looks down the table, at her nieces, Emily and Amanda, sitting in their red velvet Christmas dresses, eyes wide at the enormous size of the drumsticks, which have been promised to them.

Until the moment the girls had arrived, and she held them in her arms again, smelled the child's innocence in their hair, Julie had no idea of just how much she has missed them, how much of Darla lives on in them. Now, watching their grandmother lean over to fuss with the ribbon in Emily's hair she is reminded of how her mother used to fuss over Darla's hair in the same way. Now, satisfied with the newly straightened bow, she looks up, meets Julie's eyes and asks, “Grace?”

Julie nods, and lowers her head. Why not? She has a lot to be thankful for. It makes no difference what name is used, God, the Universe, the Holy Spirit, the Great Spirit; she knows there is something larger to give homage to.

With eyes closed, she listens to the rote words of gratitude for the abundance of food, for time spent with family, and then looks up with a start, when her mother concludes with, “And we give thanks for the memory of our beautiful Darla, who is with us all now. Amen.”

At the other end of the table, Julie catches the flicker that crosses Ian's face. He still struggles with hearing their daughter's name, she knows, but he is trying. That's all she can ask. He meets her gaze, then returning her smile, he looks over to his mother-in-law and says, “Thanks, Mom.” Then he pushes his chair back, stands up with the carving knife and fork in hand and commences “butchering”—according to Barry's teasing—the turkey.

Heaping platters of food are passed from hand to hand, and in the din of the rising conversation, Julie leans to her mother and asks, “Do you remember how excited Darla was about the Obama campaign, Mom?”

“I certainly do.”

“Can you imagine how thrilled she would have been over the results—about the inauguration next month?” Julie says, spooning mashed potatoes onto her plate. “She would have been especially excited to share that with you.” She passes the bowl of potatoes to her mother. “So I've been thinking,” she looks back to the head of the table, “well, Ian and I are wondering, if you'd like to stay for a few more weeks after Christmas so we can all watch the inauguration ceremony together.”

Her mother's hand freezes mid-air. She recovers quickly, accepts the bowl, smiles, and says, “Nothing would make me happier, Dear.”

“Good, it's settled then.”

For a few moments the only sound is the clinking of cutlery against china. “Maybe that handsome cowboy, your Mr Blue, would like to watch it with us,” her mother says. “I must say that I'm quite disappointed that he didn't join us tonight.”

Julie smiles at her mother's complete about-turn of subject. But she too is sorry that Virgil couldn't, or wouldn't, share Christmas dinner with them. It wasn't from lack of trying. She had invited him, knowing as she did so that it was a long shot, that he would never be comfortable at a table full of strangers. His absence was neither her choice, nor Ian's.

During the last month, she and Ian have each, in their own way, come to terms with their relationship with Virgil. Julie knows he is still leaving, but in her heart she knows it has little to do with her and Ian, and more to do with Virgil's own solitary journey. It is obvious now that Virgil is sick. Yet, she respects his unspoken request not to probe. Each time she sees him now she is aware of the subtle changes. More than once she's come upon him in the barn standing between his Clydesdales, pressed up against one or the other as if drawing strength from them. Each time, not wanting to intrude on the private moment, she waits in the shadows until he resumes his chores. Every morning and evening now, she joins him in the barn to help feed and care for the horses. Although it has never been acknowledged, she is aware that he is teaching her to take over his role. There are no notes between them anymore, and no unnecessary words spoken by Julie whenever they are together. They have little need for words now. Everything that needed to be said between them was said that day in the hospital in the healing circle around her bed.

She recalls with wonder the brief ceremony and the unexpected calmness of mind and body she was left with when it was over. As everyone was leaving she had asked Levi to stay behind for a moment. When they were alone, the boy had listened without any indication of judgement or rejection as she described her meeting with Darla while she was under the ice. “She's almost home now, thanks to you, Levi,” she had told him. “Your promise is fulfilled.” Only when she went on to tell him that she knew about the rose, and about the sweat lodge hidden in the bush at NaNeetza Valley, about Darla's warning of the danger waiting in the stones, did a flicker of surprise cross his face. “There's no need to do the sweat, the vision quest, anymore, Levi,” she had said quietly. “It's time to go back to your life, to school, to hockey.”

He remained expressionless, motionless, for a moment before giving his head a nod so brief that Julie was not certain it was agreement. Had she convinced him? She had to be certain. “Darla asked me to give you a message.” She had no idea if the words had any meaning at all, or whether they had sprung from her own imagination, until she saw Levi's reaction, the dimples that appeared on his cheeks, when she repeated, “She said to tell you, that ‘you make her heart come glad.'”

“Aunt Julie?” five-year-old Emily's voice breaks into Julie's reverie.

She smiles at her youngest niece, “Yes, Sweetheart.”

“Amanda said that you might give us some of the dolls in that big box in the closet upstairs.”

“Did not!” her sister cries, nudging Emily in the side.

“Did too,” Emily whines. “You said Darla doesn't need them anymore.”

In the startled silence that follows, Julie feels everyone's eyes turn to her.

She puts down her fork. “Of course she doesn't,” she says smiling at the girls. “I'll tell you what. Tomorrow, you can both go through them and choose as many as you want. You can even take the whole box home with you if you like. I'm certain that's exactly what Darla would want.”

In the darkened cabin, dying embers glow through the wood stove's cast-iron grill. Moonlight streams in through the window above the kitchen sink, pooling on the chrome tabletop, and illuminating the yellow notepads neatly stacked there.

Forty years of his life in these handwritten pages, one notepad for each year he has spent in the Chilcotin, for every year since he changed his name to Virgil Blue.