The Fox (40 page)

“Yes, I can be there in a little over an hour. Meg, is he in hospital?”

“No. Not in hospital. Aine, let’s not talk on the phone. I’ll be waiting with a bit of lunch for us. See you in a bit.” Her voice was not jolly, not jolly at all.

My thoughts rambled while I rode the underground. She said George wasn’t in hospital. A deep, dark thought about death sprang forward, but I quickly buried it. He must be on a trip. Yes, a trip. Why didn’t he call me and tell me? He wasn’t beholden to me. We weren’t related. We were friends. No. More than friends. I considered him my uncle. But still, he didn’t have to call me every time he left town. Why did Meg’s voice sound as if she were holding a secret close to her heart? Why was I frightened? Now that I think about it, he really didn’t look good when he got on the train last week. He didn’t tell me he felt ill. And Meg said he wasn’t in hospital.

All these thoughts swarmed through my head as I jumped on the tube at the Marble Arch, running up and down the stairs when changing at Trafalgar and then on to Waterloo. George lived near the Royal Theater.

When Sophie was well, they’d loved to go to the theater. Since she’d died, I don’t think he’d gone once. He told me he didn’t need to live through others’ lives; his life was filled with his own memories to keep him company. I didn’t think he read a novel or a work of fiction after her death. It was as if a door closed to a part of the world for him when she died. He lived buried in his history. The buried memories of others released through his archaeology. His life.

I knocked. Meg opened the door. She looked just as she had the last time I saw her several years ago, thin as a straw, grey hair so tightly pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck it seemed to give her brown eyes an almond shape. Her strong, long fingered hands grasped my shoulders and pulled me into the house. Though she was severe looking, she was anything but. Every bone in her body was friendly. She wasn’t much for powder or lipstick. It was to her benefit now, as powder and lipstick seem to gather in a woman’s creases and wrinkles as we age. Rosewater. She always smelled like rosewater. Hugging me close, I could tell she still wore it.

“Aine. Oh, my dear. It’s so good to see you! Come in. I’ve sandwiches and tea for us. Here, sit in the study. I’ll bring them down.”

I watched as her calf-length black skirt and sensible brown shoes marched up the stairs to the kitchen. I stood in George’s study. Its dark, mahogany shelves overflowed with books and papers. I also saw labyrinths. He told me he’d been collecting them but there were close to fifty, of all sizes in here. Some on top of books, some standing propped by papers and others braced by little plate stands. There were even a few on the arms of the leather chairs. Some looked ancient and some new. It was as if he’d started his own museum of labyrinths. I picked up a bronze one with its own stylus in a hole in its side. A medieval Eleven Circuit pattern that looked like the Chartre labyrinth. Four quadrants walked and traced to meditate. Heavy in my hand, it looked as if someone had used it lovingly for many years. The edges of its grooves were worn.

“I see you found his pet.”

I jumped. I’d not heard her come down the stairs.

“Pet?” I didn’t know what Meg was talking about. I looked around for a small animal or bird. I was surprised, as George never liked animals underfoot. “What pet?”

“That thing. He carried it around in his pockets until he wore holes in them before he went up to Scotland. It is not a light thing as you can tell. He decided not to take it with him on his trip; ‘too cumbersome,’ he told me. He got it from a friend who found it in an estate sale in Ireland. He’d take it to the park before sunrise and sit on a bench, waiting for the sun to come up.” She started pouring tea into rose-patterned china cups. Sophie’s rose patterned china cups.

My mouth watered. The cheese sandwiches looked yummy and the steam from the tea smelled like Taylor’s of Harrogate Scottish Breakfast. George’s favorite.

Then she stopped and set the teapot down. My eyes moved from the teapot to her face, and I watched it fill with even more wrinkles as tears filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks, spotting her white blouse. I lost my appetite.

“ And now, of course, he can’t use it. Aine, dear. George didn’t want me to call you. He told me to tell you he went out of town if you called or came by. But I can’t do that.”

I closed my eyes. Bad news was coming, and I didn’t want to hear it. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to look into her teary ones.

“George is in St. John’s Hospice. He’s been there for a week. He is dying, Aine, dying.” Her hands covered her face and her shoulders bobbed up and down as she sobbed.

I stared at her, unbelieving. A week. He’d gone in right after he left Scotland. He didn’t seem sick.
What does she mean he’s dying?

“Meg. If he’s so ill why isn’t he in hospital?”

“His treatments have stopped working now.” She lifted a tissue to her eyes. “He knew this some time ago and made plans with St. John’s before he left for Scotland. I didn’t want him to go up there, I thought he should stay here and fight this thing, his illness, but…. He is such a stubborn man. I doubt even Sophie could have convinced him otherwise. Anyway, I have been told he is close to dying.”

Death had visited me before. My father died before I went to university, then my brother Donny, and, soon after, my mother. But, I’d not grown used to it. Does anyone get used to death? Now George. I knew he was ill, but it was always in the distance. When I asked how he felt, he always told me he was fine. Looking out the window, at the road in front of George’s home, I wanted to yell and stop the traffic. George is dying! But, the cars continued on their way. Life was the same for the people in them. George’s death would not affect them.

I gently took hold of Meg’s shaking shoulders until she looked up at me. “I need to see him. Can I visit? Is he well enough for a visit?”

“Uh, oh. Yes. Of course. Let me call and tell them you are coming. I’ll be right back.”

As I waited for her return, I picked up the labyrinth and held it. My trembling hands would have dropped the stylus, so I traced the grooved path with my fingers. Years of quests and meditations were recited over this piece of metal. It felt warm to my cold fingers. As I traced the path, I silently begged whatever powers that be to let George be well. When I got there, I wanted him to be standing at the door saying, “What am I doing here? Let’s get back to work, Aine. There are years to uncover and mysteries to find answers for out there. Call a taxi and let’s go!” Grasping the sculpture to my heart, I wished him to be well. I didn’t know how to handle his death.

Meg walked back into the room. She hugged me and said the hospice was expecting me. The address of St. John’s Hospice and cab fare were stuffed into my hands.

“But aren’t you coming with me?” The thought of doing it on my own made my heart beat fast. I was close to panic.

“No, I can’t. I have said my goodbyes. I have done all I can for him. I can’t watch him die. I call everyday and tell the staff to pass along my hello. But to go and watch him die? No. I’m not going. They’ll call me when he goes. Who else would they call? I’m all he has left. Well, you and me, Aine. I would have called you. After. He didn’t want you to worry over him. But, I guess you were supposed to be here.”

She picked up the tea and still full sandwich tray and started climbing the stairs in her sturdy shoes. “The taxi will be here in a moment. I took the liberty of calling. They’ll take you there straight away.” She stopped and turned her head to me. “Tell him I am praying for him and think of him. Please?” Her tears started again. She snuffled and climbed to the kitchen.

My taxi arrived just as George’s front door closed behind me.

Light filled the reception area. Light and soft classical music. Never a music buff, I couldn’t tell what music was playing, but it soothingly filled my ears. I expected the medicinal smell of a hospital, that sterile, antiseptic smell that permeates clothing and never seems to come out. I was surprised at the lack of any odor. No antiseptic, floor cleaners, or – what I dreaded most – death. I didn’t really have an idea of what death would smell like, but I was expecting it here. Then as I stepped up to the reception desk, perfumed lavender wafted into my nose. The woman, Jane by her nametag, must have lavender lotion or a candle nearby. I preferred the scent of real lavender.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is Aine MacRae. I’m looking for George Weymouth. I mean, his room.”

“Mr. Weymouth,” Jane said, running her finger down a list of orders. “Yes. Ms. MacRae, I’ll call and let them know you are here. They’re expecting you.”

Overstuffed chairs sat heavily on a blue linoleum floor and filled the reception area. Water gurgled over stones in a small table fountain. Doors opened and closed down the long hall to the right and left of the desk. I wondered if George would appear around the corner of the wall at any moment.

“Ms. MacRae, Sarah will be right here. Would you like to sit down?” I wondered if she wore that look of condolence for every visitor who came here.

“No, thanks. I’ll just wait here.”

Another door opened and closed, and a woman slipped around the corner, smiled at me, and then Jane, and at Jane’s glance back at me extended her hand for me to shake. “Hello. Ms. MacRae? My name is Sarah MacDougal. I’m working with Mr. Weymouth. I’d like to talk to you for a minute before we go into his room, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, and please call me Aine.”

“Good. And call me Sarah.”

She led me around the corner. We passed three rooms and then came to a door labeled “chapel”; she opened it and invited me in. The room was small; four pews left a narrow walking space between them and the walls. The wall at the far end was covered with a pleated, deep purple velvet curtain. An oak table sat in front of it with two brilliant yellow mums on it. The blossoms seemed to explode out of the quiet colors behind them. A golden chalice sat between the plants, simple yet spiritual.

We sat and she began. “Mr. Weymouth has asked me to explain a bit of what is going on in his room right now. He is actively dying. He may not live until morning.” She stopped when she saw the disbelief in my eyes.

“I just saw him last week! He looked tired, that’s all, tired! He told me he was just coming for tests. How can he be dying?”

“He stopped his treatment for his illness, leukemia, several months ago. He was about to come here when he left for Scotland. I was surprised he did as well as he did while there. When he got back home, he was completely depleted and very weak. An ambulance brought him here from the station.”

“Oh my God. What can I do? Can I donate blood or something?” My hands searched my jeans’ pockets in vain for tissues to stem the flow of my tears. Instead, my hand found George’s labyrinth. I must have slipped into my pocket when Meg told me about George. My hand came out of the pocket empty. Sarah reached into her tweed jacket pocket and pulled out a handful for me. I thanked her.

“He has slipped in and out of consciousness the last twenty-four hours or so. Oh, and he sees and talks to Sophie.”

“What? He sees Sophie?”

“Sometimes, the people we loved who have died return to us just before we pass. I consider it a blessing when it happens. When she is there, he smiles and looks into a far corner. The room fills with love.” A slight smile and far away look came to her face and she sighed. Then she refocused on me. “We can go in now, if you like. He’s ready for you.”

I wasn’t ready to hear this. I knew he was looking across the Celtic River of Death he loved to go on about in his classroom. A few of us were allowed this vision. It meant he was seeing across to the people who stood there to welcome him. Sophie.

“Will I be the only one in the room?” My mouth was dry. He was so close to death and I didn’t know if I could be there alone with him.

“I’ll be there. I’m staying until he passes or comes through this crisis.”

I took a deep breath. The only other person I’d seen just before death was my mother. She was in the hospital, hooked up to what looked to me to be every machine in the building. I went into her room, but she was in a coma. Her heart attack was sudden and massive. She died that night, while I was getting coffee.

“What do I do? What do I say? Can he talk?”

“Yes, he’s able to talk a little. The best thing is to just be there, hold his hand, and let him talk to you. What you need to say will come to you. Don’t force it, but it is important to tell him goodbye.” She squeezed my hand. “You’ll become a part of this room very quickly. It’s full of peace.” She smiled, and I believed her.

We walked into George’s room. Drapes of royal blue and forest green framed the bed. A deep green fleece lay on top of him, his body an irregular mound under the blankets. His head lay on a pillow wrapped in deep blue satin. I stood still until I saw his chest move. A small weight dropped from my shoulders and I started breathing again.

He looked so small. I remembered him as giant of a man. “Did he collapse because he came up to Scotland?” I whispered.