The Look in Your Eyes

Chapter 16

When we came back from England I tried to put everything that had happened on the trip behind me. The next morning Clyde had still been upset with me, but it had worn off during the day and by the time we had said goodbye to everyone Clyde was just as loving and caring and talkative as ever. It helped that I had given poor Okon the cold shoulder, but that had disturbed me. I guess it is safe to say that by the time we left England most of the problems we were having were in my head and concerned my perception of everything. Outwardly we were as in love as ever.

When the semester started I shocked Clyde by telling him that I wasn't going to go back to university. Instead I'd accepted a full time position at the library.

"This way," I told him, "we'll only be paying tuition for one, and we'll have enough money to afford to live better and to save for our future. When you've got your degree, you can support me and I'll get mine."

He hugged me and thanked me and told me I was the best wife ever and it was no wonder that he loved me. I liked working at the library and I had more free time, without lectures or homework. I took cooking classes and finally learned how to cook food so that it tasted good. I had time to write, though I found myself uninspired. I was too content for writing poetry, I reasoned. Most of my best poems were born from confusion.

I was happy again -- the frightening events in England had all but disappeared from my head. We had found an equilibrium that worked well for us. I didn't see Clyde quite so much because I was no longer at the university with him, and he did spend a lot of time on homework and writing, but all the rest of his time was devoted to me. It didn't bother me that I no longer saw any of my friends very often -- after all the less I was in a position to unconsciously do something that would hurt him, the happier my life would be.

Occasionally he would drink a little too much, especially when he was stressed about his novel, and then recriminations would come and he would throw some obscure past behaviour at my face that I could not even remember so had difficulty defending. But it was soon over and we would make up and then I'd be ever more vigilant not to do anything that could set him off again. The good times in between made it easy for me to shrug those little things away. I'd learned that it wasn't possible for life to be perfect so the only way to achieve happiness was to make the best of it.

The one other strange development was that now Clyde no longer shared his work like he had in the past. He became secretive about his novel, saying that it was his present to me and he wanted to surprise me with it when it was complete. By the time we were married for three years I had finally begun to wonder if he would ever finish the thing. By the time we were married for five years I was positive it would never happen. Not that I didn't think he was writing -- I just thought he was writing one of those novels that becomes so complex and involved there really is no way of ever ending it. He was working on his doctorate and he had published numerous articles so it was not as if he wasn't successful, and I had no reason to do anything but respect his abilities.

When Clyde received his doctorate I was as proud as ever and thrilled too that now he was finished with his studies I could return to school. I'd changed my mind about studying creative writing and decided to become a teacher librarian. I loved kids -- I'd done all the reading with toddler groups at my library. I was only twenty-seven - there was still time for me to get my four-year degree and then work part time while I started our family.

But it didn't happen that way. Clyde wanted to devote himself full time to his novel, rather than accept the teaching position the university had offered him. He asked for my support but as I no longer believed in his novel it was difficult to give. Our fights became unbearable and finally I backed down and gave up the idea of becoming a teacher. The damage was already done, though, because I'd wounded Clyde deeply with my doubts that he would ever finish his book.

"All I ever wanted from you was a little support," he would say, "And I get this. Do you know how it feels to have a wife who doesn't respect you?"

"I do," I'd say. "I just . . . oh! Finish your novel -- finish your novel and show me!"

"I will," he'd say and slam the door to his study, closing himself in for the rest of the day.

It was a recurring theme, playing over month after month. It replaced the jealousy theme, but it wasn't a bit more acceptable. I felt like I was walking on eggshells all the time so as not to set him off. I couldn't escape feeling oppressed and I had to combat that feeling with the only resource available to me. My mind. I escaped into fantasy -- creating daydreams that so comforted me I was able to contend with the mess my life had become. I never crossed the line -- I never confused my daydreams with reality, but they consoled me and I figure it was a much healthier way of addressing the problem than what Clyde chose. He had fallen back upon alcohol's mind-numbing therapy.

The central figure in my daydreams was a kind, compassionate, generous man who gave me strength just by standing beside me. Who knew my thoughts and could extend understanding and empathy without even speaking. He even sometimes came to me at night in my dreams and I would wake up wanting to hold onto his presence for the rest of the day. I would imagine scenarios where my marriage was over and we would find each other and begin a life together, and surprisingly that type of fantasy helped me cope with my reality -- helped me concentrate on all the good in my marriage and set aside the bad.

The only problem was that this man was modeled on a real person -- and though I know I shouldn't have done such a thing -- I couldn't help it. It was just like in England and Scotland all those years ago when I had looked for something that wasn't there so I'd imagined it instead. And I knew that the image I held inside me of him was not real and all that I imagined never would be, but he continued to have Euan's eyes and Euan's smile. I guess I saw Euan as the road not taken, and I couldn't help but return to those crossroads in the past to see if he would have been the better choice. I wasn't in love with him and I wasn't regretting him, but I was using him as my safety net -- for better or for worse.

And then I got pregnant. I was on the pill and it shouldn't have happened, but it did. I was three months along by the time I realised the fact. At first I was shocked and wondered what on earth we would do, and how I would tell Clyde, but by the time I was home from the doctor's office the thrill of knowing I was going to have a child outweighed every other concern. Clyde surprised me again. He was happy. Delirious. He'd always said we needed to wait, but faced with an incontrovertible fact he embraced parenthood wholeheartedly.

I'd say that, besides the very first year, my pregnancy was the happiest part of my marriage. We moved into a larger apartment -- the main floor of another old, subdivided house -- and painted a room for the baby in savannah yellow with forest green trim. I found animal stencils and stencilled a row of tawny giraffes above the baseboards. We filled the green crib with jungle stuffies which we played with in the evenings as we wove stories about our future child.

Clyde loved my huge belly and bought me bright red sweaters to show it off. He would cuddle up to it in bed and talk to the baby through my distended skin.

"I go crazy when the little munchkin kicks," he said one morning, after I'd begged him to move so that I could get up and go to work. "I wish your maternity leave would start so we could stay in bed all day with my head against your stomach."

I could think of a lot of things I'd rather spend the day doing, but I didn't want to inhibit his enthusiasm. "I know, honey, but if I don't get to work soon I'll be fired and we won't have any money to support the baby."

"I'm going to get a job when the baby's born," he said, kissing me tenderly, "and you won't ever have to leave it."

I smiled indulgently. I had never guessed that having a child would finally make him see the light about his novel. But I knew better than to say anything.

On March 21st, 1981, Tannis was born. Clyde was with me the entire time, holding my hand and wiping my forehead, and basically getting in the way. The whole wonder of giving birth and creating a new life didn't wear off for weeks. She was the sweetest, most perfect thing imaginable and I was in complete awe and totally in love with her. I nursed her and held her and talked to her and probably never put her down once in that period of time.

I think Clyde was disappointed that she wasn't a boy. He never said so, but his interest waned, and he also began feeling jealous of the attention I showered her with. He started drinking, something he hadn't resorted to since he'd heard the news of the pregnancy, and our troubles resumed from where they'd left off, only now there was another person in the equation to consider, a person who needed my protection from any disturbance in her life.

I told Clyde that I was too involved with Tannis so I was going to return to work and he could be the at-home parent. I hoped that would enable him to bond better with her and to understand why she was so special and needed to come first in our lives.

He took her in his arms and said, "You're going to be daddy's girl now."

It was heartbreaking for me to have to leave Tannis and go to work after only three months. I came home every day at lunch to feed her. Often her diaper needed changing badly and Clyde was always looking frazzled.

"I can't write with her here, Zoe," he said one day. "I get an idea and she cries so I have to come and pick her up. By the time I'm back at my typewriter I've lost my inspiration. Besides -- have you ever tried to type with one hand?"

"How about if we get a babysitter to help you?" I asked.

He pulled me close and kissed me. "I love you -- both of you," he said.

I found a sitter that wasn't too expensive but Clyde wasn't happy with her, and then another, who was much too happy with Clyde. When I would come home to give Tannis her lunchtime feeding , the woman would be serving Clyde some coffee while Tannis cried in the playpen. In the end, my sister took her -- she was at home with her two boys anyway. It was the best solution, Tannis got excellent loving care from her aunt, but I had to give up the lunchtime feeds because it was just too far to drive.

Chapter 17

"Mom, what's wrong with daddy?"

"Tannis, he's just sick again -- you'd better get ready for school."

"But he always smells like wine. It's disgusting. And he made a lot of noise last night -- like usual. I don't like it."

"I don't like it either, honey," I said, stroking her head. "Now put on those clothes or we'll be late."

"I hope he gets better. He's not nice when he's sick."

"I hope so too."

I dropped Tannis off at school and then headed home, hoping Clyde would still be sleeping -- I couldn't face seeing him yet. It was my day off and I had too many things to do without having to deal with a drunken sot as well. I parked in the driveway and put my head in my hands. How had my life become so out of control? I'd spent all these years trying to keep it all together and it had grown worse and worse the harder I tried. It sickened me that Tannis should be exposed to Clyde when he was in that kind of condition. How he could have so little consideration for her . . . but then, he'd always been selfish -- it had just taken me years to realise it.

I felt the weight of all that I was struggling to hold up bear down on me and suddenly, in a flash of inspiration like I hadn't had in years, a poem came to me. Not a happy poem, but a poem that reflected the burden that had become my life. I rifled through my purse for a pen and something to write on. In the end I used the back of a grocery receipt.

You let it
invade your sky
spread over your land in smoky layers
take over your world
umber fields poisoned past reclaim

it doesn't stop

you go on hoping
that you can breath
air so thick a solid choking grey
and as you open your mouth to speak
you realise that nothing you say will change it

it doesn't stop

and you think
I can go on living
as steaming ash is falling coating you
you can't dust it off
it is becoming you

it doesn't stop

and you think
if this is life it's all I've got
and it doesn't stop

I was almost sobbing when I finished writing it. I reread it again and again and looked at my house and cried, "I don't want to live like this."

Finally I got up the nerve to go inside. Ragged snores were coming from the bedroom so I figured I'd have some peace for the time being. I cleaned up the mess that he'd made of the living room, knocking things over as he'd stumbled around, and then I tackled the kitchen where he'd heated up a midnight meal in our new microwave. Spaghetti sauce was spattered all over the inside.

The cleaning done, I was about to do the laundry when I looked down the hall and noticed that the door to his study was open. That was odd -- he always kept it locked. He had become completely paranoid that someone was going to steal his novel. I was about to shut the door when I looked inside, and curiosity overtook me. When was the last time I'd had a look at his novel? 1975? At that time he had one hundred thousand words -- fine tuned words that had been edited over and over and over in the three years he'd been writing them. It was 1988 now -- how many more words could there possibly be? Five hundred thousand? A million? It was his life's work, after all.

Paper was strewn all over the desk. He'd replaced his old computer with a brand new 286. Top of the line. Fast as they come. We didn't have them yet at work, but I'd used the same windows program that he had, so I booted it up.

I loved his writing -- that was what had drawn me to him, even more that his charm and his looks. His way with words had overwhelmed me. I wanted to see if he still knew how to use them. If he could still tangle them up in such intricate patterns.

I began reading from the beginning. There was so much that I remembered -- so much that we had discussed -- so much that he had read to me over and over in those early years. I felt tears build behind my eyelashes remembering his enthusiasm, his astute wit, his eloquence. I pressed the down arrow and held it until I got to page eighty-five, page one hundred and seventy- three, page four hundred and thirty-seven, and each time I read a few pages before I moved on again.

It was beautiful. Everything about it -- the structure -- the punctuation -- the imagery -- but it was completely meaningless. There was no integral idea, no plot, no theme, no continuity, no content at all. Just skillfully arranged word patterns.

I was so absorbed in what I was doing that I hadn't noticed the snoring had stopped. I hadn't heard Clyde shuffle down the hall and stop in the open doorway.

"Just what do you think you are doing?"

His voice was harder than ice and just as cold. Despite his bleary eyes he sounded completely sober.

"The door was open."

"The door was open? And I suppose the computer was on and there was a great flashing neon sign saying ‘read me'?"

"No -- but what harm can there be if I read it? I'm your wife."

"You know I don't want anyone to read it! Didn't I respect you when you didn't want me to read your poems? Didn't I wait for you to share them with me? Did I ever ask you why there was a page missing from your book?" He came up to me and leaned into my face.

"I . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I just wanted to see -- I love your writing -- you know that," I said, backing away.

"And I loved your writing. But did I search high and low for that missing poem? No!"

"I ripped the page out because I'd messed it up."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"Anyway -- that's not the point. Why are you really mad at me? I just wanted to see how the novel was coming."

"You know the novel will never be finished -- you said so yourself."

"No -- I just . . . thought you should work a bit and do it in your . . ."

He pounded his hand down on the desk. "That's what it is! You resent me for having to support me in the name of art. You were probably going to erase my file."

"No -- I would never."

"It's always the same with you! I never did! I didn't realise! There was no poem! Always the same bloody excuse. But I think you realised exactly what you were doing and I think you meant to do something and I think there really is a poem. You read my work that I didn't want you to see, now I get to read yours."

"No!" I cried as I started to head for the door. I couldn't show him the poem. He would never understand any of it -- and I'd have to explain it all -- what it meant and why I didn't want him to see it. It would violate everything that had kept me sane throughout the marriage.

"Fair is fair," he said, getting between me and the door.

"No, Clyde, please. You are acting crazy. I'm not going to do what you say anymore just to appease you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm not going to carry you anymore. I'm not going to protect you from yourself. I'm not going to have Tannis woken up in the night by your drunken ravings. I'm not going to lie to her about what's the matter with you. I'm not going to do any of this anymore. I'm leaving."

"Just because you don't want to show me some stupid poem? Fine, don't show me the poem -- just promise not to come in here again."

"I can safely promise you that, Clyde, because I'm leaving and I'm not coming back."

He closed the door and leaned against it. All the anger had gone out of him. He looked about eighteen years old. "Don't say that."

"I have to say it, Clyde." My voice was breaking but I forced myself to continue. "It's time we faced it. We're no good for each other. I'm killing you and you're killing me."

"But Zoe -- I need you."

The look on his face was cutting into my heart. He was so confused, so hurt. I went up to him and touched his arm. "You need you, Clyde. You're the only one who can make you strong. You rely on me too much -- I've weakened you."

He knocked my hand away. "Don't give me that load of bloody psychoanalytical garbage. We love each other. We belong together."

"Please, Clyde, move away from the door. I'm leaving and nothing you do or say is going to change my mind. I should have done this years ago, but I guess I didn't get the courage to until today." I was frightened out of my wits. Desperate. And I could feel all those old urges to calm him down, to say what he wanted to hear, to make him happy so the pain would go away. But I couldn't do it this time. I'd finally reached that point where there was no turning back. It wasn't a matter of being strong or being weak -- it was just that I had no other choice.

"Over a stupid poem?" he yelled. "You're leaving me because of a lousy poem? This isn't real. It can't be happening to me."

I sighed. I'd had it. I wasn't going to feel sorry for him anymore. "It's always you, isn't it Clyde? This is happening to all of us. Please move and let me go."

He moved aside, turned the door handle, and swung it wide. "The door is open but I'm begging you not to leave," he said and he crumpled down to the ground beside it.

I looked at him and cynically wondered if it was an act to try to touch my heart. He couldn't do that any longer. He'd killed what love had lived there for him years before. I shook my head and stepped over him. He stayed where he was while I grabbed clothes for me and Tannis and put them in the car.

"Take care of yourself," I said as I left the house.

It was difficult to drive with all the tears that were clouding up my eyes and running down my face. I couldn't stop shaking. I was half way to work before I realised that wasn't where I was going. I turned the car and headed for the house I grew up in. There I would find hot cocoa and a mother to hold me in her arms. Everything would turn out fine.

"You're doing the right thing, dear," said my mother. "We all support you one hundred per cent. We could see what was happening to you but before you acknowledged it we didn't want to say anything."

It was late in the evening and Tannis was all tucked up and asleep in my old bed. I was on my second cup of cocoa for the day.

"Why not mom? Why let me continue on making a mess of my life?"

"Well, to tell you the truth we didn't know how bad it really was, but we thought it best that you realise for yourself that you had to leave. We didn't want to drive you away and lose you." She looked at me closely. "He didn't ever hit you, did he?"

"No, mom -- he didn't. I really believe that he loves me. That's what makes this all so hard." I sighed.

"Time to think of yourself and Tannis. What are you going to tell her?"

"That we can't live with her dad anymore because he's an alcoholic. That she can see him when she wants to, if he's sober, and to remember that it's a disease and he loves her, no matter what."

My mom stopped her mug half way to her mouth. "Do you think it's a good idea to tell her he's an alcoholic?"

"I'm not lying to her ever again mom. I thought I was protecting all of us, but I was just making everything worse."

"You're taking a lot of blame in this, honey."

"Well, it's my fault. It happened because of me and I did nothing to stop it."

"It didn't happen because of you. It happened because that's the way Clyde is."

"He was fine before he met me. He didn't drink like that when I first married him." I could feel the tears coming again and I fought them back.

"That doesn't mean you drove him to drink."

"He loved me too much and I didn't love him enough. I never deserved to be married to him," I sobbed and then I broke down crying.

My mother's arms were around me and she was stroking my head like I was still her baby. "There, there, honey, don't cry. It's all over now."

Our divorce was very straightforward. My claim for custody went uncontested. I let Clyde keep all our possessions -- the only thing I wanted was Tannis. I was afraid he would file for support, but he didn't. I knew that somewhere within that miserable mass of problems was the same kind and caring man that I married. I hoped he could straighten himself out, for Tannis' sake if not for his own. She deserved a father she could look up to.

I've only seen him twice since that awful day that I left, both times while dropping Tannis off for a visit. He was distant and cold, but that was what I expected. I was nervous, hoping that when I saw him I wouldn't feel the urge to run up to him and say that I'd changed my mind. But when I saw him it only served to reinforce what I knew -- he no longer had any kind of hold over me. That last night when I got home, I unclasped the butterfly that I still wore around my neck and placed it gently into Tannis' jewellery box.

It wasn't long before he had another woman to support him, both financially and emotionally -- less than six months. The way women were always attracted to Clyde it came as no surprise to me. And I wasn't bitter or resentful -- what was the point? It hadn't worked out for the two of us but I hoped he could find stability and happiness. He needed a woman who counted on him -- who could make him strong. It wasn't me. That's all. He needed a woman who could inspire him to finish that worthless book and turn it into something meaningful with a heart and a soul.

My problems didn't go away with the dissolution of the marriage, though. I remained filled with self-blame and if it weren't for Tannis, I don't know what I'd have done. She was my joy and my reason to keep going when things seemed all muddy and indistinct. We lived with my parents for a year. I knew that I would have to get out on my own and find an apartment for Tannis and me, but my childhood home offered me sanctuary and the comfort of a loving family and that's what I needed at the time more than anything else.

If my convoluted marriage had taught me anything, it was this: you can't just let things happen to you - you have to want them to. And if you want something enough, you have to be prepared to make it happen. When my divorce came through I knew what I needed to do. I went to the bank and withdrew my savings, and went straight to a travel agency.

When I picked Tannis up from school I walked into her classroom, tickets in hand. "Guess what honey," I said, waving them under her nose. "We're going to England."

Chapter 18

As the plane came increasingly closer to England I became more and more nervous. What was I doing anyway? Would he think that I was entirely insane? I could tell myself all kinds of things, that we were going to England so that I could give Tannis the experience of travel and history and to explore the culture of her heritage; that it had been too many years since I had seen Aunt Phoebe and all the rest of my relatives; that I needed to get out of my rut and a change of country would do me good, but none of those were the real reason. I was going to England with one purpose alone. To ask a question that I should have asked seventeen years ago - nothing more. I had no other expectations.

I know the difference between fantasy and reality. I know all the fantasies I had ever entertained to make my life more livable were only creations of my mind -- without any substance at all. And I didn't know if I wanted any of my fantasies to be real either. Just as in the past, I had no idea what my true feelings towards Euan were. The way memory and fantasy were so intertwined I knew it was best to have no feelings at all. Especially because reality is a far cry from fantasy. Euan had his own life, completely separate from any that I may have mentally bestowed upon him. His own dreams and aspirations, and they didn't include me. I was aware that he had a girlfriend -- why wouldn't he? It was just a wonder that a great guy like him wasn't actually married, though he probably was as good as. And my intent wasn't to get in the way. I just wanted the answer to one little question so that I could put everything behind me and get on with my life.

I wondered if I really could go through with it. Wouldn't I just clam up at the very thought of bringing something like that up? Was I being selfish to even ask? But I didn't see how asking Euan what he meant by a question that he'd asked me seventeen years ago could in any way affect him adversely. If that were the case I knew I shouldn't, wouldn't, and couldn't do it.

"Mommy, what's the matter?" said Tannis, pulling on my sleeve to catch my attention.

"Nothing dear -- just thinking."

"But I said something and you didn't answer. And you look so sad."

"Sorry honey. I'm not sad -- just tired and a little confused. What did you say to me?"

"What are you confused about?"

"That's what you said to me?" I asked in mock astonishment.

Tannis giggled. "No, of course not, silly. But why are you confused?"

I'd vowed never to lie to Tannis again, so I answered truthfully, if somewhat evasively. "I'm not quite sure whether I really know what I'm doing by going on this trip, but don't worry honey -- I'll figure it out."

"We're going to visit my great uncles and great auntie; even I know that -- sheesh!"

I smiled at her. "Thanks. You see everything with such clarity -- I wish I was as good at that as you."

"Oh mom! Anyway -- I was asking you about Lucius. Do you think he'll want to play with me or is he the kind of boy who doesn't like girls?"

"Honey, it's so hard for me to think about Lucius as anything but a small child -- but he must be twenty years old by now."

"Then he'll want to play with me," she said triumphantly. "Just like my other big cousins."

"He might be away at university or something."

"School just ended -- it's summer!"

"Anyway sweetie, you'll have my cousin Janey's kids to play with."

I didn't allow myself to fall into abstraction for the rest of the flight. We stayed in London with dear Uncle Nigel for a couple of days and I shared all my favourite places in the city with my daughter. It was wonderful to see the sparkle in her eyes when I showed her a building or a park or a beautiful painting and told her how I'd felt or what I'd thought when I first saw it. I tried phoning Kim, but of course the number was no longer his. He was probably back in Singapore and lost to me forever. But we did go to Soho and the wonton house was still there. I ordered the deep fried bean curd skins and ate them in memory of him, laughing as Tannis prodded them with her chopsticks.

"Are they real food, mom?"

The vegetarian phase I'd gone through way back when had petered out before her birth. "Give them a try, hon. I know you'll like the sauce."

She picked one up gingerly, using her chopsticks almost as adeptly as me. "Good," she said between bites and ended up eating more of them than I did.

My inner tension built up again on the train to Bristol and I tried to counteract it by making non-stop absurd conversation. Tannis and I were giggling like a couple of silly schoolgirls when we disembarked and were met by Auntie Phoebe, her face unchanged and so endearingly familiar. I was overwhelmed when I hugged her and felt the first tears prickle my eyes when I proudly introduced Tannis. I was snuffling all the way to the car and smiled a watery smile when I saw that though it was a different car, it was tiny and old and battered, just as it should be. There was a dog in the backseat, wagging its tail. A new Poppet to replace the old.

"They're all Poppets to me," said my aunt as she unlocked the doors.

Tannis was delighted to sit in the back with Poppet and all of our luggage. For me it was the first time in the front seat. I looked around at all the changes that had been made to the city in the fifteen years since I'd been there and warmed with nostalgia whenever I spied something I remembered. Aunt Phoebe filled me in on how Okon was doing back in Nigeria and promised to show me the latest pictures of him with his wife and five children. Then she ground her gears and took a corner a little too tightly. As I was tossed against the car door I laughed. It was so great to be back.

Janey was waiting for us at the house with her three kids, a boy and two girls, the youngest eight, just like Tannis. We put our bags in her old bedroom, now free and available to us. As we came downstairs again the wine room door caught my eye. It held so many memories that I didn't think I wanted to ever open it again.

Uncle Reggie shuffled into the drawing room wearing his signature slippers and a bright yellow terry robe. He glanced at me and said, "Back again?" as if I'd just come in from a walk. He patted Tannis on the head and told her she was a good girl and sat on his rocker by the empty hearth.

After undergoing some initial shyness the children ran out into the backyard to play.

"Is the badminton net still up?" I asked.

"Dad couldn't survive without his game," said Janey with a smile.

We caught up on our lives. I was able to get my part including my separation and divorce out of the way quickly and more painlessly than I'd anticipated, and then we were free to talk about our children -- a topic mothers can ramble on about incessantly. Finally we worked our way to what I really wanted to hear about -- Lucius and Euan, who were conspicuously absent. I hadn't wanted to appear overeager by bringing them up too soon and tried to convey only rather casual interest when at last they were mentioned. Aunt Phoebe gave me a calculating look and I knew that I had every reason for being careful about showing my interest. It was already suspect.

"Lucius should be home for dinner," said Phoebe. "He's working at Euan's bookstore."

"And Euan?" I said, knowing that it would look even more suspicious if I didn't ask the question.

"Oh! He's in Wales -- didn't you know?"

I don't know which feeling was more powerful, relief or disappointment, but I was filled with both.

"He's been gone for about two months," said Janey helpfully. "I'm managing the store now. It's great -- the kids come by after school and do their lessons in the back room. They help me a bit stocking the shelves too."

I wanted to ask where he was in Wales, what he was doing there, and when he would come back, but I swallowed my impatience, hoping that it would come out in the conversation. My answer to Janey asking about her job at the store completely sidetracked the conversation to a discussion of the complexities of the publishing industry, and I was left wondering how I was ever going to fulfill my mission. I needn't have worried -- Auntie Phoebe had that part under control as I was to discover the next day.

Lucius came in for dinner, tall and handsome and eager to see me and meet Tannis. He claimed to remember me and supported that statement by saying that no one else had ever played the 1948 car ride with him before or since, and he remembered it completely. He lay on the floor and offered to give Tannis a ride to prove it, and actually got most of the words right.

"He does it even better than you, mom!" cried Tannis after she and all of Janey's kids had worn him out.

"Of course he does," I said. "His legs are longer."

"Now I know how you must have felt after having me pester you all day," said Lucius, dragging himself to his feet.

"You were one demanding little guy," I said, teasing him. "But I had so much fun with you -- I really did."

"I even remember bits of that trip to Scotland."

"But, you were only three."

"Yeah -- I know. For a long time I thought I was remembering my mum, but Dad explained about you and the trip. I never met my mum."

I didn't know what to say -- there were too many emotions running through my head -- too many complicated thoughts.

"No worries," he said. "Didn't need a mum, did I? I had Dad and Grandma and the rest. I think I've been luckier than most."

Aunt Phoebe and I were sitting in the garden, drinking tea while Tannis played with Poppet. Uncle Reggie was in his study, lost in his own little world.

"I've been thinking," she said. "What would you say to me taking Tannis and Janey's kids camping for the weekend? I've still got the caravan. It wouldn't be far, just to a place I know in the Cotswolds. Janey needs some time to herself -- she's been working hard lately -- and I think you do too."

I sat and considered. "I suppose if Tannis likes the idea I'd be up for it. But what would I do with myself?" And then I thought of Wales. But how could I just show up on Euan's doorstep? And how . . . but Aunt Phoebe interrupted my train of thought.

"I'd need you to do me a favour, if I'm to go at all. You see, every Saturday I drive over to Euan's cottage in Wales for a visit and to deliver his post. I'd need you to do that for me. You'll probably want to see him anyway, so it's a good opportunity, then you can take the rest of the weekend to do some sightseeing. You've never been to Wales before have you? You can take my car."

Aunt Phoebe's expression was very bland but I knew that she was not only extremely shrewd, but a mind reader into the bargain. I never asked her why Lucius couldn't pop the mail off to his father, I just jumped at the chance she had offered me. I didn't even wonder if she had any ulterior motives. I blessed her for knowing what I wanted and not asking any prying questions.

"I've never driven on the wrong side of the road before."

"You mean the left side of the road," she said with a laugh. "Don't worry -- you can practice a bit around here today. You'll be driving off the beaten path -- his cottage is very remote -- so there won't be any traffic to speak of."

No, I thought, except for the first bit; the motorway; the roundabouts; and me having to shift with my left hand throughout. "So, will you call him to tell him I'm coming instead of you?"

"There's no phone where he lives, Zoe. He's barely got electricity and running water. You'll just have to surprise him."

Chapter 19

I surprised him. The drive had been nerve-wracking -- I'd lost my way more than once when I'd finally reached the poorly marked, winding, bumpy, back roads of Wales. I'd ground the poor car's gears more than Aunt Phoebe had probably done in its lifetime, and that's saying a lot. The cottage was at the end of a long, rutted drive on the slope of a mossy green hill. I was tense and my palms were sweating. My blood was pumping so hard I thought my head would explode. If it wasn't for the mail that I had to deliver, I would have turned tail and run. Fast. Instead I got out of the car and walked up the path to the weather-beaten front door and tapped on it. I waited, but nothing happened. Swallowing nervously I knocked harder. When the door opened I stretched my hand with the mail in it out towards Euan and said, "Hi."

He stared at me for a few minutes, his grey eyes stark. "You're not Phoebe."

"No. I'm Zoe."

"I'm well aware of that . . .you're in England?"

"Wales, actually," I said, trying to lighten the situation with a bit of humour.

"Sorry. Not thinking straight. You . . . well . . . this is really unexpected." He ran his hand through his hair. It was shorter now, with just a tiny tinge of grey at the temples, but he looked as good as he ever did.

"Did you want your mail?" I said. My hand was still held out and beginning to shake.

"Yes, of course. Thanks." He took it and made a show of shuffling through it, but I don't think he could have been reading it at all -- I know I wouldn't have been able to take one word in.

"I guess that's it then," I said. Standing there on the stone step with the real-life, living, breathing Euan in front of me, my courage completely vanished. Who on earth had I been trying to fool? There was no way I could go through with it. "It was nice to see you."

"You came all this way just to bring me my post and leave?"

"Yes." I tried to turn and walk away but he put out his hand to stop me.

"All the way from Canada?" There was a soft grin on his face.

"I had to make a detour at Frampton Cotterell for your mail, but that about sums it up."

"Would you stop being a silly little nit and come inside?"

"Is Anne home?" I asked as I stepped over his threshold.

He stood still and looked at me intently. After a moment he said, "I'm the only one here."

"Oh."

"I'll not bite."

"No, I don't suppose you will. You never did."

I sat down at his kitchen table and he put the kettle on and fussed about with the tea things. I suppose he had a beautiful view from the window but all I focused on was a little blue enamel jug with a chip out of the pouring spout.

"So, are you going to tell me about it?"

"About what?"

"About your trip. About your daughter. About your life. About why your marriage ended. About what you are doing here." He took a sip of his tea and gave me a challenging stare, then he turned his head away. "I'm sorry -- I was rude. Just put it down to the shock of seeing you and let's start over. I said I wouldn't bite, and then I did just that. It is nice to see you, by the way, though I guess what I just said would give you cause to wonder. Very nice. You look good."

"Thanks," I said. "It's too bad Auntie Phoebe couldn't have phoned to warn you."

"And save me a heart attack." He laughed. "She's so scatterbrained she never even told me you were coming to England on a visit. I had no idea."

"Well, I'm here."

"I'm glad. How are you?"

And the way he said it made up for his earlier remarks. I realised he must have found the situation just as awkward as I did and it had made him act a little stupid -- well I'd acted stupid too, trying to say goodbye on his doorstep, so I could relate. I told him about my trip so far, and about Tannis, and my job and my family. That covered the first three questions -- the next one was the biggy.

"It just didn't work out," I said.

"You don't have to answer all those questions," he said. "I was being an obnoxious git -- I'm sorry."

"Well, I should be able to talk about it -- I just don't like to."

"And you don't have to. I was afraid you would run into problems and I'm sorry it couldn't have been all you wanted it to be."

"I don't think it ever can," I said. "People just never turn out the way you think they are, or they change. I changed him. I wasn't good for him."

"Aren't you being a little hard on yourself?"

I stared at the chip on the jug. "Just honest. But don't think I'm hurting. I stopped loving him a long time ago -- I needed to get out -- I'm happy now. I just have to make a new life for Tannis and me . . . find the right place to begin."

"You're young and you're strong," he said. "You'll make a go of it. Sounds like you're doing a great job with your daughter, and I'm not surprised. I always knew you would make a good mother."

"I think it's the only thing I've ever done well."

He was up, adding more water to the tea, and he looked at me across the little room. He had that unreadable look in his eyes again, but it was gentler than before. "Something to be proud of," he said, finally, and I was glad that he hadn't interpreted my comment as plea for pity but as a statement of accomplishment.

It was then that I managed to turn the conversation from myself and ask him how his life had been going and what he was doing in Wales.

"Running the bookshop all those years, well it made me think. I figured I could at least write as well as a quarter of the authors I carried, so I tried it out."

"So you write now?"

"Yes -- but the first book took a bit of time, what with working all day at the shop, so when the publishers were nagging me for a follow up I decided . . ."

"You're published?" I interrupted.

He looked a bit sheepish. "Yes . . . and my editor wanted more so I came out here to plonk out another one and appease him."

"That's . . . that's wonderful," I said. Just like that. Clyde spends years writing, perfecting, and coming out with reams of empty words that possibly never will find cohesion and Euan just sits down one day and writes a book in his spare time and is published. And then he treats it in such an offhand way as if it were quite unimportant.

"It's a good place to write."

"I'd like to read your book."

"Sure -- but I'll have to warn you, it's not Shakespeare."

I was quite certain that he was downplaying his writing, just as he'd downplayed being published. "I'm not that crazy about Shakespeare," I said with a smile. "I like to understand what I'm reading."

Euan sat back, took a long drink of his tea and then said, "Well we've covered you and we've covered me -- what's next?"

I looked at the window again and was able to see beyond the small jug to the mullioned panes, paint peeling on the wood revealing yellow under the white. Inconsequential little details that were trying to divert me from my purpose. But the time had come -- it was either say goodbye now, or make a stab at it.

"I don't remember that trip to Scotland in much detail," I said. Euan set his empty cup down on the table and stared at me enquiringly. "I've forgotten all the names of the towns, except for Glasgow and Edinburgh, and I have no idea where in Scotland anything was, but I remember the campfires at night, and that beautiful sandy beach that we walked for miles to get to, the haggis and the blood pudding, those jutting red rocks, and that question you asked me on the very last day."

"That question," he said.

"You know the one?"

"I know the one."

"What did you mean by it?" Now that I asked it, I felt such a release that I couldn't stop myself. "I've wondered again and again, all these years. I've tried to figure out what was going on in your head, what was going on between us, and why you asked me that."

"It was a very straightforward question, Zoe."

"No it was not! A person just doesn't ask something like that out of the blue. What kind of sandwich are you having? Do you want to go to bed with me? No? Okay I think I'll have ham and cheese!"

"I did." He got up and leaned against the wall.

I was getting frustrated. He was being evasive. He obviously didn't want to answer the question and I should have let it go right there. But I didn't think about the possibility that the answer might change his orderly life. That it might affect his relationship with his girlfriend. That it might destroy whatever tenuous friendship we had ever shared, I just wanted closure. I wanted to understand what the whole trip to Scotland had led up to, for once and for all.

"I know you did! But what did it mean?"

"What is there you don't understand about it? I wanted to know if you would go to bed with me. And you said no. I got my answer. Case closed."

The conversation was so surreal that I didn't even think about how what I was saying might be interpreted. I just persisted. "But . . . but . . . it doesn't happen that way! Just ask me to go to bed with you when there has been nothing - nothing - between us?"

"You think there was nothing between us? I'd rather thought that you fancied me." He smiled in a self-deprecating sort of way.

"Did you . . . did you ever do anything about it? Tell me you liked me? Hold me close at night? Kiss me?"

"No -- I didn't do any of those things. I was on a camping trip with my son. I couldn't . . ."

I couldn't sit any longer. I was too wound up. This wasn't going anything like I had imagined -- not that I'd actually thought it through. If I had, I'd never have gone ahead with it. I got up and walked across the small room. "Not even after he'd gone to bed? Just to let me know so I wouldn't have to have been confused all the time?"

"I thought it was obvious that I liked you."

"Not to me."

"Everything I did showed you, everywhere we went, everything I shared. I took you out on the rock. I held your hand. I . . . what does it matter anyway? You were just going to go home in the end. And you did." He put his hands in his pockets and almost glared at me.

"So why did you ask me, then?"

He walked over the window and pretended to be interested in something outside. "Because you were leaving."

"A quick shag in your bed at my aunt's house? That's all it was about?"

"You can put it that way," he said, reaching for the blue enamel jug.

"And you thought I'd say yes?"

"I hoped you would. You didn't." He absently tossed the jug from one hand to the other.

"Of course I didn't. I don't know what I would have done if you'd gone about it the other way, told me you liked me and built your way up to it, but I'm glad you didn't because I might have gone for it thinking you wanted a relationship with me, only to find out that all you wanted was to get me into bed." I turned away from him. Hurt was building up inside, threatening to engulf me.

"You were leaving. Where's the possibility of a relationship?"

I twirled around at that and let him have it. "Do you know what I've been through because of this? I'd just got to the point where I'd given up on you and accepted the fact that you were only being nice to me because I was your cousin, then you threw everything out of whack with that question. I became all confused again. I read all kinds of things into what was between us that were never there. I wrote a poem that I've never shown anybody. That I had a fight with Clyde over. I set you up as the all time greatest most understanding guy in the world and I created fantasies that kept me sane through all the pain in my marriage just because I thought there was someone out there who might have taken my life down a better road. And all you had ever wanted was just to go to bed with me!"

"Nothing else was possible."

"Even that wasn't possible!"

He threw the jug across the room, whether in anger or frustration I don't know. It hit the back door and then ricocheted from it to the stove and off. A dramatic build up to his verbal explosion. "Look -- I've thought about you over the years too. How do you think I felt when you came back here two years later? It was only a year after you left that you got married! A year! And I had to see you with him all the while thinking he was wrong for you -- and that morning when I saw that you'd been crying I knew that I was right. But that made it even harder for me to stop thinking about you."

"But all you wanted was to go to bed with me. You said so yourself." I was starting to cry and wishing this would stop. All of it. Now. Forever. But he kept on destroying all my dreams -- tearing them to shreds.

"Can you blame me? Why wouldn't I have wanted to then and why wouldn't I still want to now?" He moved over, closer to where I was standing. I could see the vein in his neck pulsating.

"I didn't come here to ask you to go to bed with me!"

He reached out his hand and touched me on the cheek. His anger appeared to be gone and his voice was surprisingly soft and gentle. "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't want to go to bed with me and then leave again? I'm willing."

"You can't mean that. What about your girlfriend?"

His arm came around me. There was a hint of confusion in his voice. "Girlfriend? Why should this have anything to do with a girlfriend?"

I pushed against his chest. I wasn't going to be able to hold the tears back any longer. I could feel them welling up inside my lower lids. His face was blurry as I looked up into it. "You're not the guy I thought you were. I'm the stupidest idiot in the universe. I create this amazingly wonderful person in my head and then I convince myself that he's real. It's all so pathetic." I could feel the tears slithering down my cheeks.

His arm left my shoulders, stroked my back and then fell to his side. "I'm just an ordinary man and I guess I'm pathetic because I still would like to go to bed with you."

"And you don't even care about Anne." I know I sounded pitiful when I said that, but I could barely speak. I could barely think. It was as if someone had died and I didn't know where to turn.

"Zoe," he said, and put both his arms around me. I should have pushed him back and run out the door right then, but I was spent. I'd had all my illusions shattered -- I didn't care what happened to me anymore. I was dimly aware of him leading me out of the kitchen and through a door that he opened and closed. It was dark and I didn't see the bed until he drew back the covers and lay me down on it. Then he got in beside me and held me close to his chest. I think he kissed my hair but I was beyond worrying about what he was planning to do. I lay there with my face pressed against the buttons of his shirt and let myself cry as I'd never cried before, trying to wash away all my stupid suppositions, my ridiculous fantasies, every thought I had ever fabricated about Euan. I cried for the person I had thought he was and the person he had turned out to be. And I cried the hardest because I now knew that I had expected a lot more than just the answer to that question. I had expected my fantasies to be real and I couldn't bear to discover that they were now as insubstantial as cobwebs, and just as meaningless. I felt like sand in ashes.

Chapter 20

I opened my eyes. Through the thinly curtained window the rising sun was barely beginning to streak the sky. Even that amount of light hurt, and I squinted. Under my cheek was something warm and rough. I could hear steady, rhythmic breathing that was not my own. I pushed myself up on my elbow and saw that I had been lying on Euan's chest. In that dim light his sleeping face looked young and vulnerable. There were no more tears left in me to cry for it - the face that hid the inner man so well. I sat up, careful not to disturb him. If I could, I would get out of the house before he awoke. That's what he had wanted anyway -- for us to go to bed together and then for me to leave. And technically that's what he'd got.

I found the bathroom and washed my face. His buttons had left deep indentations in my cheek. My clothes were all wrinkled and I was uncomfortable from having slept in them all night. I felt drained. Like I had been blown through by some northerly wind, and left empty and chilled to the bone.

I was glad to find that the kitchen stove was electric. I had been too preoccupied the day before to notice any such detail. There was no hot water and I was cold so I decided to chance making some tea before Euan woke up. I caught the kettle before it whistled and filled the pot. It was no warmer in the house than out, I reasoned, so I opened the back door and sat on the stoop. The heavy china mug was hot in my hands, the tea scalding as it touched my lips. Warmth began to seep through me as the sun turned the sky from rose to cream to the lightest of blues. The back of the house faced the hill, but here, on the side, green fields fell away in a gentle roll. At the bottom I could see a thin silver stream.

"I thought you would be gone." It was that same soft Scottish accent that had got under my skin years ago. I wouldn't let it touch me now.

"I thought so too."

"I would have followed after you. There're some things we need to clear up."

"Everything has been said." I sighed and took another sip from the big, warm cup. "I'm just having my tea then I promise I'll leave."

"I don't want you to go, not yet."

"There's no point in talking anymore. I'm a fool and I fully accept it. I've settled something that I needed to settle and now I can get on with my life."

Euan had poured himself some tea. He came out and sat beside me. I moved over a little so we wouldn't be too close. I couldn't help noticing that he smelled of soap. Ivory.

"There's my life to consider," he said blandly. "Or is it all right to shake it up and then leave?"

"Don't forget Anne."

"We do need to talk about Anne."

"I think that is all pretty straightforward."

He put his cup down on the stair between us and took hold of my shoulders, turning me to face him. "There is no Anne."

"I'm not going to pretend that Anne doesn't exist," I said.

He groaned in frustration and then let go of my shoulders and threw his hands up in the air. "Zoe! You can be so aggravating. I haven't had a girlfriend for a year and even then her name was not Anne. Your mother should read Phoebe's letters a little more carefully."

"A year?" I asked in a very small voice.

"Yes, a year."

"But, why didn't you say anything last night?"

"Would it have made any difference?"

"Not much . . . but . . . you really aren't quite as bad as I thought you were."

"Thank you. I actually like to believe that I'm quite good."

I laughed. It seemed strange to laugh when my world had stopped. "You are a you that I don't know. All the other Euans died last night."

"That's for the best."

I drank my tea and looked at the sky. Faint clouds were beginning to drift up from the haze at the horizon. He was right -- it was for the best. It wasn't a reason to grieve -- it was a reason to celebrate. I had been freed in much the same way as when I took the butterfly pendant from my neck -- only this freedom had a different symbol. I reached into the coin pocket on my jeans and pulled out something small and round and silver. I placed it in his palm.

"It's yours again. I'm free now."

He looked down at it and turned it in his hand. "You still have it?"

"Fool that I am."

He put the ring on his little finger and then took it off again and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "You know, I lied to you last night."

I eyed him warily. "What about?"

"I said I was willing. I wasn't. I was just angry -- I said it to hurt -- you or me or both of us, I don't know. Sometimes there's no real reason for things said in anger." He looked down at his hands. "Sure I would like to go to bed with you, but you'll be leaving anyway and then I'll be alone here, still wanting something I can't have -- so what's the point?"

"You thought there was a point to it seventeen years ago."

"I've learned a few things since then."

"I guess I'll be going now," I said, getting up from the stair.

"I can't stop you." He didn't even turn his head -- he just looked out across the green fields.

I didn't know what I was thinking or what I was feeling -- I just wanted to see his grey eyes one more time. I stood in thought, trying to figure out something to say that could follow a statement so final. Something that would make him turn his head and look at me. I put my hand in my back pocket and felt the edge of a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out, adrenaline rushing, and before I could change my mind I said, "Here, I want you to read this. No one else ever has, except me."

He took it silently, his eyes on my face, just as I'd hoped. But when I saw them I wished I hadn't done it -- they looked like November skies.

I didn't get in the car and drive away. I don't know why. Instead I walked up the hill. I couldn't get the image of his eyes out of my mind. The path was rough and I kept my face down, following it, so when I crested the hill I didn't notice straight away, and it was a few moments before the wide, green vista knocked me breathless. The climb had left me weak -- my energy sapped by vanished dreams and lack of food. I had no idea when the last time was that I'd had something to eat. We'd drunk tea the afternoon before and into the evening, and tea again this morning. I walked across the hilltop slowly, listlessly, and then sat on a rock where it started to slope away again, down to another valley, and another little stream set deep in the bottom. The pewter lines of rock walls snaked across the hillside, dividing field from field. The cottage was somewhere far behind me and I felt as if I were alone in the world.

I wasn't alone for long, and I don't think I was surprised at all when Euan joined me. Was this why I hadn't driven off? The faint hope that he would find me?

He sat beside me and handed me a sandwich. "I thought you might need this," he said. "I hope you like cheese more than you used to. It's the only thing I've got that doesn't need to be cooked. I didn't want to take the chance of you leaving while I cooked a real meal."

"Thanks," I said, and took a bite. "It's good."

Euan had a sandwich of his own and we both silently sat and ate. When his was gone he looked at me. The growing breeze was tossing my hair about. He reached his hand out, brushed it back from my face, and tucked it behind my ear. "I can make a good sandwich, but I was never good at expressing my emotions . . . I have to do that with food, or music . . . or sharing something I care about with someone that I care about. You can do that with words. Your poem . . . it captured everything . . . it's true, it's real. It showed me how you saw me then . . . and I think you caught it all perfectly. When I asked if you wanted to go to bed with me . . . I really meant all of what your poem said, and more. I just used the wrong words."

I looked up, amazed. I hadn't given the poem to him for this, only for a chance to see his eyes again. And now he had that expression in them that I had wanted to see. I couldn't say anything - I could only stare as I felt something flutter uncomfortably at the base of my throat.

"We aren't those people that we used to be," he went on slowly, as if feeling his way through his thoughts for the right words. "And we never were those people that we both imagined and built up over the years . . . we aren't perfect -- we are real . . . and even though we have flaws, we deserve that same chance those other people had. That chance to discover what it is that draws us to each other. Maybe we can do a better job of it this time."

The flutter was no longer uncomfortable. It had spread tingling warmth to every tip of my body. "Maybe we can," I said.

He put his hand in his shirt pocket and took out the ring. "I was thinking you could take this back again. It doesn't even fit me."

I reached my hand out and he put the ring on my finger. I held it up to the sun and watched the smooth garnet glow like wine.

"When do you have to go back to Canada?"

"I bought open tickets."

"Good," he said and he smiled that way that always used to melt my insides. It worked better than ever. "I was wondering, do you want to . . ." He laughed as my face changed from happiness to utter disbelief. "No -- I wasn't going to say that again. I'm not totally daft. We need to get to know each other . . . so . . . would you like to go to Scotland with me? You and me and Tannis and Lucius? And we can find all those places whose names you can't remember and maybe this time you'll write them down."

"I don't think there's anything else I'd rather do," I said, and he took my hand in his. We sat, staring out across the dales, not talking, just feeling, and I heard the words echo through my head, changed now, but true.

It is a vision we are making
A lovely story for the taking.

The End

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