The Unlocking Season Read online

  “Good,” I said. “Because I’m not prepared to let you go. I’m glad you nipped this in the bud.”

  Ben’s laugh was wry. “I might have been wiser to let nature take its course. On the way to the pharmacist’s I slipped and broke my ankle. I just got out of the ER.”

  I groaned. “Oh Ben, I wish I lived closer, so I could at least make you chicken soup.”

  “Thanks, but my friends in the building will take good care of me.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said. “Try to get some sleep, and I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Wait. There’s something else. Roy Brodnitz called me last night.”

  “Last night?” I said. “Do you remember the time?”

  “Not sure. When my land line rang, it awakened me. I’d taken something for my cold, and I was groggy, but I did notice that it was after dark.”

  “Do you remember anything Roy said?”

  “No, just that he wasn’t making any sense. Roy and I have talked on the phone at least a dozen times since you introduced us before Christmas. Whenever he had questions about one of the DVDs I gave him of your family and the Love family, he’d call. We always had a substantive talk. The relationship between two filmmakers who make movies on the same subject can be contentious, but Roy was always charmingly tolerant of my suggestions.”

  “But he was different last night.”

  “He was obsessive. He kept talking about decay and the intensity of the colours and the white light that was everywhere holding things together. I asked him to explain, but I couldn’t get through to him. I was feeling punk, so I gave up, broke the connection and went back to sleep. When I called Roy this morning, there was no answer. I assumed he was sleeping it off.”

  “So you think that when Roy called you he’d been drinking?”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But tonight I checked my cell and saw that yesterday afternoon Roy had sent me some photos. They were close-ups of forest undergrowth, fallen branches, tree bark, lichen. They were exquisite — as intricate as a tapestry.”

  “That sounds like Ernest Lindner’s work,” I said. “Roy and some of the crew from Sisters and Strangers were scouting locations yesterday, and they were exploring the island where Ernie had his cabin and studio.”

  “Ernie was fascinated by the natural cycle of decay and regeneration,” Ben said. “If Roy was on Ernie’s island that might explain some of what he was trying to say. But Roy’s an articulate man. Something must have happened . . .”

  “You’re right,” I said. “And Ben, I wasn’t planning to worry you with this, but Roy collapsed last night. He’s been hospitalized in Saskatoon. Discovering exactly what did happen might be critical.”

  “Oh God. How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know, but you might have been the last person he spoke to. Any insight you have on what possibly happened could help.”

  “All I can offer is conjecture,” Ben said. “I know Roy had a problem with cocaine, but the mania when he called me last night — especially all the raving about colour and the light that holds everything together — doesn’t fit the pattern.” Ben fell silent. Certain he had more to say, I waited. Finally, he cleared his throat and continued. “His behaviour does fit the pattern for someone using a hallucinogen.”

  I was taken aback. “I can’t reconcile that with the man I knew.”

  Ben’s voice was gentle. “Roy was no longer the man you knew, Joanne. He was suffering from writer’s block, a bad one that was crippling him creatively. He’d called me about it two weeks ago. I didn’t tell you because he swore me to secrecy. That promise doesn’t matter now. Roy told me that when he began writing Sisters and Strangers it was as if he’d been given the gift of a story he was meant to share. And then, without warning, the gift was taken away.”

  “You think Roy believed using a hallucinogen might be a way of getting the gift back?”

  “I think it’s possible. People like the Beatles and Steve Jobs experimented with mind-expanding drugs like LSD and peyote because they believed that intensifying their sensory experiences fed their creativity. For some people it does. I’ve known visual artists who said that when they dropped acid, they had to work at full capacity just to keep up with the images that flooded their minds. The drugs banished their inhibitions and their fears. They removed everything that kept them from making the art they wanted to make.”

  “The possibility that a psychedelic drug would free him to write again might have been impossible for Roy to resist.” I was close to tears. “But Ben, it didn’t work for him. It might have destroyed him.”

  “Everyone who uses hallucinogens is aware that the outcome might not be positive,” Ben said. “Sometimes, they just roll the dice. Joanne, call me if there’s news. I’m fond of that young man.”

  “So am I.”

  * * *

  When my conversation with Ben ended, Zack was in the shower. Had he been in the room, I would have asked him about the wisdom of calling Ainsley Blair and telling her about the possibility Ben Bendure had raised. But since he was in the shower, I called Ainsley and delivered a précis of my conversation with Ben and said I felt it was important for Roy’s doctors to have any information that might be germane to his treatment.

  As the silence between us lengthened, my body tensed. When Ainsley spoke, her words were a warning. “I’m handling this,” she said. “Roy is my concern not yours. And Joanne, don’t mention your theory about Roy using hallucinogens to anyone else. Words have wings, and the damage you could do to Roy’s reputation through careless speculation would be irreparable.”

  * * *

  When the dogs and I returned from our run on Easter morning, Zack was at the side of the house with the pruning shears snipping forsythia. I bent to kiss the top of his head.

  “There were vases on the kitchen counter, and I figured you wanted to fill them with something,” he said.

  “You’re not just a pretty face,” I said. “There are tulips in the fridge, and the pussy willows that Maddy and Lena brought back from their school field trip are in the mud room, waiting to be snipped. The table will be glorious.”

  Zack grinned. “You’re looking pretty glorious yourself this morning.”

  “It’s sweat,” I said. “You’re experiencing an endorphin contact high.”

  “I’ll take it,” Zack said. “Spring is in the air. Pantera and Esme are panting with joy, and except for Angus, all our family will be with us today.”

  “The only cloud on the horizon is Roy’s condition.”

  “Anything new on that?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m still stewing over my call to Ainsley last night.”

  “You did the right thing. The standard tests for drugs in blood and urine do not include testing for hallucinogens unless doctors suspect a patient ingested something that would cause them to hallucinate. Giving Roy’s doctors a possible explanation for what happened may have supplied them with a vital piece of information.”

  “Only if Ainsley passed it along,” I said. “And I doubt that she did. She made it clear that she did not want me sullying Roy’s reputation. She’s shielding Roy the way he shielded her when he lied to me about her whereabouts the night Gabe died.”

  “They see you as an outsider,” Zack said. “That relationship is too complex for us to contemplate on a beautiful Easter morning. Let’s go inside where I can wipe you down, sniff your towel, snip pussy willows and jam this forsythia into vases.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are we still just talking about flowers?”

  “That’s up to you,” Zack said.

  “It will take two minutes tops to get the forsythia in water,” I said. “The pussy willows can wait.”

  * * *

  Christmas Eve and Easter morning are peak times for church attendance, and by the time Zack and I arrived, the cathedral was alread
y full. Peter, the most organized of our children, had texted to say he and Maisie had already staked out two pews near the back of the church for our family. Taylor and Vale were each holding a squirming twin and laughing. Clearly, their reunion had been a happy one. Mieka’s daughters were both servers: which meant they would play an active part in the service. Madeleine was the crucifer, so she would be carrying the cross and leading the processional, and Lena was the senior server. Charlie D already had his camera at the ready to get photos of the girls in their robes.

  Charlie and Colin liked to sing, and when the service began and the choir processed up the centre aisle singing Handel’s “Thine Be the Glory,” the boys chimed in with their favourite — Raffi’s “Peanut Butter Sandwich.” Their duet was a hit in our immediate area, but when the prayers started, Charlie’s and Colin’s interest waned, and their dad and Charlie D took them downstairs to the playroom.

  According to the prayer book Easter is a time to be “inflamed with new hope,” and as the congregation sang the old hymns and I heard the promises of fresh beginnings, I felt a bloom of peace and gratitude.

  When we were leaving, I noticed three young girls casting surreptitious glances at Vale. Finally, two of the girls pushed the third towards her, and the girl, blushing, asked Vale if she’d been Mandy, the teenager who committed suicide in the movie Butterflies. Vale said she had played that role. “It is Mandy,” the blushing girl announced in a high and carrying voice. Suddenly Vale was surrounded by adolescents, phones in hand. The race for selfies was on.

  Lena and Madeleine had been changing from their robes into their street clothes. When they joined us, and Lena saw the activity around Vale, she was clearly puzzled. “What’s up?” she said.

  Madeleine lowered her voice to a whisper. “Vale is famous.” She shifted her gaze to Taylor. “Do you think she minds?”

  “No,” Taylor said. “It’s part of her life.”

  I turned to our daughter. “It’s going to part of your life too. Are you up for that?”

  “As long as Vale and I go home together, I’ll be fine.” Taylor’s expression was thoughtful. “Jo, Vale and I know how lucky we are. When we look at the pieces that had to fall into place to bring us together, it’s hard not to believe in kismet. Roy Brodnitz saw my grandfather’s painting Aurora in the window of a Manhattan gallery and felt his depression lift. Roy was grateful to have a second chance, and he wrote The Happiest Girl. When he was mayor, Dad spearheaded the movement to bring the Saskatchewan Production Studios back to life. The Happiest Girl was filmed here in Regina, and Vale and I met the person we were meant to be with forever.” Our daughter’s lips curved into a self-mocking smile. “And all because Roy Brodnitz glanced into a gallery window and saw a painting.”

  Throughout the service, Roy had been on my mind. Vale had worked with him, and Taylor regarded him as a cherished friend. They deserved to know what had happened. But when I looked at Taylor’s face, I knew I couldn’t shatter her quiet joy, so I swallowed hard and squeezed her shoulder.

  * * *

  As exceptional as everyone in our family believed the twins to be, their behaviour fell well within the normal range for eighteen-month-olds. Like the girl with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead, when Charlie and Colin were good, they were very, very good, but when they were bad — look out. Thankfully, Easter turned out to be one of their very, very good days. The weather was mild enough to have the egg hunt outdoors, and we were on our way to the backyard when the doorbell rang. Mieka gave me a questioning look. “Aren’t we all here?”

  “We are, but I invited Georgie Shepherd to join us. Ben Bendure was supposed to be here too. Sisters and Strangers deals with much of the material about Sally Love that Ben explored in The Poison Apple, and I thought he and Georgie would enjoy comparing notes.”

  “But Ben’s not coming?” Mieka said.

  “No, he had to cancel. He called last night to say he’d broken his ankle.”

  Mieka’s brow pinched with concern. “Poor Ben,” she said. “A broken ankle is never fun, but at his age, bones take longer to heal. And poor Georgie Shepherd. She’ll have to survive the kids, the dogs and the rest of us without a kindred spirit to turn to.”

  “Georgie won’t be hard pressed to find a kindred spirit,” I said. “Come with me, and see for yourself.” From the moment Georgie walked through the door in her crisp white cotton shirt, ankle length jeans, black cardigan and eye-catching Burberry trainers, handed Mieka a large festively wrapped basket filled with Bernard Callebault chocolate rabbits and said, “Which way to the egg hunt?” it was obvious that Georgie Shepherd’s driver’s licence might have said she was forty-four, but she had come to play.

  The party was non-stop zany. The boys tore around the backyard exploring every nook and cranny and Charlie D, Peter and Georgie were their willing accomplices, running along with them, snagging eggs that were beyond reach and making certain each twin’s basket was filling at the same rate. Standing on our deck in the sunshine with Mieka watching the five of them was so blissful I was almost able to forget that Roy was lying in the ICU at Royal University Hospital in Saskatoon.

  “This is the first year my daughters haven’t been racing around with their own baskets,” Mieka said.

  “They were eager to take the dogs for a walk,” I said. “It’s possible one of the neighbourhood kids hasn’t heard yet that Maddy and Lena are going to New York for spring break.”

  Mieka laughed softly. “Anyone in Regina who hasn’t heard about our daughters’ big adventure must have been living under a rock. The girls can’t stop talking about it. I just hope they aren’t disappointed.”

  “You have tickets for The SpongeBob Musical,” I said. “How could they possibly be disappointed?”

  “A Broadway show is exciting,” Mieka agreed. “And proof as if I needed it that my daughters are growing up. They’re great kids, but sometimes I wish the merry-go-round didn’t go round so quickly. Charlie D and I didn’t do the Easter Rabbit at our house this year. We decided the girls were probably past that.”

  “The Easter Rabbit came to Peter and Maisie’s,” I said. “Pete told Maisie and the boys how when you guys were little, the bunny always got into the flour canister at our place and when you woke up there were rabbit tracks all over the place.”

  “Dad always threatened to turn that rabbit into stew,” Mieka said.

  I smiled at the memory. “This year I guess Peter got to be the bad guy.”

  Mieka shook her head. “Charlie and Colin may be very young, but they know Peter is a softie. Maisie’s a trial lawyer — I imagine she was the one who held up the stewpot and brandished the big spoon.”

  * * *

  Lunch was a noisy, happy affair. It was a good meal — all the standard spring family favourites. Conversation topics were light, and there was plenty of laughter. Every so often, Zack or Georgie would glance my way and, remembering Roy, our smiles would fade. What had happened to Roy Brodnitz on the island was beyond imagining, and his future was uncertain, but the combination of a spring dinner with kids and dogs and the prospect of chocolate rabbits augmenting Mieka’s lemon meringue pie for dessert lifted our spirits.

  Madeleine and Lena had shopped, tobogganed, skated and just hung out with Taylor and Vale over the Christmas holidays, but the selfie scene after church had perplexed our granddaughters. Vale was no longer just one of Taylor’s friends, she was a celebrity, and when the four of them sat across from one another at lunch, I noticed that the easy camaraderie they shared in December had given way to an anxious hesitancy from Madeleine and Lena.

  Vale noticed too. She and Taylor made several attempts to ease the tension, but when it continued, Vale rose from her place at the table and went over to the girls. “Is something the matter?” she said.

  Madeleine lowered her eyes. “No. It’s just — suddenly you’re famous, and we don’t know how to act.�
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  “A lot is changing for Taylor and me,” Vale said. “But I’m the same. I’m still a beanpole, I still have freckles” — Vale took a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger — “and I’m still a ginger. Let’s just go back to the way we were before. Would that be okay?”

  Madeleine and Lena exchanged a quick glance. Lena said, “Yes, because there’s a lot we want to ask you — like do you know any of the actors in Riverdale, because Riverdale is made in Vancouver, and your movie is being made in Vancouver, and you’re all actors, so we thought maybe . . .”

  “Actually, I do know the actors who play Archie and Veronica,” Vale said.

  “And Jughead?” Lena said.

  Vale nodded. “He’s a really nice guy. We had coffee together last week.”

  Lena mock-swooned, and they all laughed.

  “Instead of me just telling you about everybody, why don’t you visit me in Vancouver and see for yourself,” Vale said. “Taylor’s coming at the end of the month. If it’s okay with your mum and Charlie D, we’ll get you tickets on the same flight. I’ve been working, so I really haven’t seen much of the city. It would be fun to spend the weekend exploring with you, and I promise that you will not leave Vancouver until you’ve spent serious time with Jughead.”

  Lena’s eyes were saucers. “That would be epic.” She cringed. “Sorry, Maddy, I know you hate that word.”

  “I don’t hate the word. I just think you should use it more carefully.” Maddy’s grin came slowly, but it was wide. “Like right now,” she said. “Going to Vancouver to meet the cast of Riverdale would be epic. It might even be beyond epic.”

  * * *

  Georgie stayed behind to help clean up. When the dishwasher was chugging and the pots and pans were scrubbed and drying on the dish rack, I poured us each a glass of iced tea. I handed Georgie hers. “Let’s take a breather,” I said.