Remembering the Bones

  So, it’s her own fault.

  She could bend one knee, push with one foot, attempt to get to the car, inch by inch on her back, reach up inside, honk the horn. But her head is resting on a thin ridge of rock. The only way to relieve the pain is to raise her head, let it loll, bang it down. And the pain starts all over again.

  What would the Queen do?

  The Queen would not have been behind the wheel. She’d have had a chauffeur.

  She was on her way to the palace. Her face has been slammed. Her mouth is dry and cold as ash. She might go into shock. The first principle of healing is rest. She learned that from Grandfather’s medical books. Why did Harry have to buy a black car? No one will see it down here when dusk falls. Only a moment ago, it was morning. She saw Case in daylight, and that was afternoon. Someone lifted something orange into the car. Her daughter. Case.

  She said her farewells.

  But who is she?

  She wonders if someone like her has been given a name.

  She sleeps.

  FOUR

  If someone would just say how long she’s been here, she’d be grateful. Three hours or thirteen. One day or two.

  Surely not two.

  She has to think of night. The number of times it’s been dark. One. She saw darkness. No, she dreamed the dark. She must have been unconscious. Otherwise, she’d have been frightened. She’s frightened now. If only she could stop shivering.

  She stares into an upturned root that has been wrenched up and off the ground, but is still attached to the base of a giant tree. The root, longer than her body, arcs like a crocodile that had its belly slit mid-air. It’s even complete with a cold, dark eye. The tree must be half-alive, half-dead; it lists heavily and there are no branches on one side. Her eyes follow the lean all the way to slanted sky. She’s forced to squint because it pains her to look at the waning light. Does she have a bruised orbit? Is one eye swollen? Thirst scrapes at her throat like a claw. She sees a motley patch of cloud attached to a long stem. As it trembles, her bones sway ‘with its motion. A crow caws, out of sight, and then barks like a sick dog.

  Who has not imagined horror? She ‘wants to howl, but ‘what good ‘will howling do? If she closes her eyes, darkness ‘will fall. It behooves her to think of morning light.

  The ‘word behooves drops into her mind like a discarded password rediscovered. The word behooves makes her want to weep. She raises her head and once more looks back towards the car. At the same moment, she clearly and accurately remembers her own name.

  FEMUR

  FIVE

  My family calls me George, sometimes Georgie, but my full name is Georgina Danforth Witley. I am familiar with pain, the kind of knowledge that comes ‘with age.

  Am I dead?

  Harry?

  Don’t answer. If you do, I’ll know I’m dead.

  My left hand rests in soot. When I pat the earth, I come up with a piece of charred bark. Did someone build a fire on this very spot? My coat ‘will be dirty.

  Soot is not a priority. Not here.

  Who are you? The silent inquisitor?

  You’re practically home. Your two-storey house is up the hill, the driveway bare, the front door locked. It’s out of sight, but you know it’s there.

  The door ‘wants painting. It’s begun to chip. My ivies will need watering. I was on my way.

  The ivies are hardy. They’ll survive. The woods are the same that grow outside your back stoop; the treed hill descends.

  I’m in the ravine, then. I’m at the bottom of Spinney’s Ravine.

  This is an outrage. I’ll miss my appointment with the Queen. Surely not. I’ll get up. All I have to do is move.

  SIX

  I must save myself or be rescued. It is that clear. But why would anyone search? I’m not missing. It was my decision to go alone. Phil is probably sitting in the lounge at the Haven this very moment, thinking I’m walking the streets of London. Or maybe she thinks I’m still on the plane. Has an hour passed? A day?

  My hips don’t lie right. There is rock beneath my body no matter which way I squirm. The femur feels as if it has snapped. If it did fracture, the break is high up. I don’t think it’s my hip. Surely not my hip, that old cliché.

  If Case were here, she’d tilt that head of coal-black hair she inherited from the Danforth gene pool and she’d look directly into me and say, You’re in shock, Mother. Lie still and don’t panic.

  Yes, Case would take charge. She’s used to giving directions; it’s her nature. She doesn’t know what she sounds like, it’s just the way she is. So thoroughly does she believe she’s in charge, it makes me love her all the more.

  But I haven’t panicked. Not yet. Someone will come. I just have to wait. Still, I wish Case were here.

  Casey Brown

  Went downtown

  With her trousers

  Hanging down

  The children taunted on her first day of school. She was six years old and her underpants had a serious droop. Didn’t matter, because she knew how to laugh. “My name’s not Brown!” she challenged, ignoring the matter of the underwear. The taunt did not get her down. When you laugh at your tormentors, you disarm them. She knew that, even then.

  My heart is racing; my bones have collapsed. There is the matter of the femur, but if I can move myself in bits, I might get closer to the car. As long as I don’t make things worse. I have one good arm, don’t I? I can use it to straighten the other. My disabled limbs seem not to belong to me. But I can push with one heel. I can bunch a fistful of pant leg with my good hand, drag the bad leg, the one that’s been so quick to disown me.

  I’ll do what has to be done.

  There must be wide spaces between posts up there. Strange that I’ve never noticed. If the car had hit a railing, it might have been deflected. But no, it had to find an open spot. The sense of error, of loss, was immediate. I remember that. But it’s my road, the one I’ve navigated thousands of times. I live up there. It’s where my bed is. Where my body wants to be. Harry and I chose the house because of the attraction of living above the ravine. We loved the place when we first saw it. Harry touched his finger to the door and made an X, moments before we made our offer. “It’s ours,” he said. “Can’t you feel that it’s ours?” And I could. It was where we belonged. The front windows looked down over the town; the back, over the edge of the ravine. There was a large backyard, a cul-de-sac at the end of the street. And ours was the first of only four houses at the top of the hill.

  My car is not in the driveway; someone will notice and report my absence. But my neighbours know I was on my way to London. The whole town read about the Queen’s invitation in the Wilna Creek Times. They used a photograph I don’t like. It was taken from the side and I was caught off guard, no time to raise my chin. It made me look older than I am; it made me look crabby.

  Here’s a crow, cawing high above.

  Hello! Hello! Is anyone there?

  I refuse to stay here, but how can I get up? The tiniest movement is beyond me.

  That’s defeat talking.

  Well, I hurt. That isn’t defeat. What I need is a blanket to pull over my head. It would make me feel better.

  At least I remember who I am.

  Then start moving, Georgie. Get yourself started.

  I will, after I rest. I need a moment, just a moment, to rest.

  SEVEN

  God? Are You here? Are You near?

  I dreamed I was floating upwards, but I have plummeted all the way down. No one will see the car. Harry chose black because he thought it looked expensive. Pride, one of the deadly sins, though I don’t mean to tattle. He died the year after the purchase, his death unrelated—You would know.

  Am I meant to die in the ravine? Is this a long-range plan? If so, why did You spare me on the way down? The lack of warning is truly frightening.

  I haven’t been in touch for a while, I know. Last time I was at morning service, I had a coughing fit and had to remove myself to a r
ear pew. I left before the service was over and haven’t been back. Phil attends chapel at the Haven on Sundays and I don’t have to pick her up any more. Truth to tell, I haven’t made the effort to go by myself.

  There should be tire marks on the shoulder up there. The miracle is, my shell is cracked but I don’t feel so damaged inside. I must be scratched, bruised, splattered with blood, though it’s hard to see.

  Stay on track, Georgie. You were talking to God. Perhaps prayer will help. Any prayer will do. Try to remember the Creed.

  It’s been a while. I’ll stare at the sky and concentrate. There’s nothing up there but an underbelly of cloud that blocks most of the light. Or is darkness descending?

  Go ahead, try the prayer.

  I believe in God, the Father Almighty

  Maker of heaven and earth

  When you first look at a thing, sometimes you don’t see it clearly. A ragged rock, longer than my humerus, is trapped deep inside the decay of the giant root. And there are smooth stones, palm-sized, tucked as if they’ve been pocketed. The root must have set its trap when alive and underground. How slowly it would have grown around those cool, hard stones. And then—to lift them up as part of itself and break through earth.

  Ibelieveingodthefatheralmightymakerofheavenandearthand injesuschristhisonlysonour

  Brain is tired, head won’t work. When I was a child, I couldn’t understand why an entire congregation of Anglicans faced front and declared themselves to believe in the Catholic Church. There was a k at the end of the word in my parents’ prayer book—Catholick.

  The Holy Catholick Church

  The Communion of Sins—surely that should be Saints

  The Communion of Saints

  I’m rusty. I’ve forgotten the words. Ribs and bum are stuck to Canadian Shield. The woods around have begun to moan and breathe—or is it my own moaning and breathing I hear?

  Nicene! Another version. Yanked from a fold of grey matter, the word bobs like a float in the mind. My grandmother, Grand Dan, said I had the memory of an unwiped slate. But memory can also be a curse.

  Perhaps God will send someone to look for me in this abyss.

  Not very likely in these darkening shadows.

  Ah, the night drops over me, like a hood.

  EIGHT

  Morning light touches my hair and reminds that I’m alive. When I tilt my head, the same ray of sunshine strikes my forehead—so warm, I want to cry out in gratitude. I have one useless arm, one useless leg. And what good is the rest of me, attached to both?

  Wings above. The crow again, a solo crow.

  It’s me, Georgie! Send someone down! I’m at the bottom of the ravine.

  What if no one’s looking? Shouldn’t you be moving?

  I think I’ve moved a little. Anyway, someone has to start looking. Case will be driving up the hill to bring in mail, check the house. But when? How often? Not every day. She’ll drive past the railings and see shrubs flattened, signs of violence or surprise. Or will she bother to look to the side? She’s always in a hurry.

  I can’t solve all of these problems at once. I don’t even know what day it is. I received an invitation from the palace. The Queen and I were born the same day.

  You have a watch, Georgie. Check the date on it.

  I can set the hour and the minute but I’ve never figured out how to set the date. Harry bought the watch in Geneva, when we were on our Big Trip. He was a jeweller himself, and wanted me to pay attention when his Swiss counterpart adjusted the settings. I confess that I ignored the instructions. My only interest was in having a watch with a face large enough to see.

  Our interests diverged, Harry’s and mine. Out of his entire record collection, Teresa Brewer was his favourite. While Django Reinhardt was the man for me. Anyone would think the match was doomed, but we managed in other, loving ways. As for Django, I have Case’s partner, Rice, to thank for that. Rice plays jazz guitar, and came up the hill bearing gifts of old music. Ever since, Django has kept me company.

  You’re getting sidetracked, Georgie. Look at the watch.

  All right then. My glasses must be somewhere. In my purse, or cracked and broken. I don’t wear them for driving.

  What was I thinking when the car sailed over the edge?

  My watch will break.

  Surely not something so banal. That could have been my last thought. One hopes for something grander. Still, the watch means something. It was a gift from Harry. I can make out the arrows, but they’re not moving.

  Time seems kind of pointless, down here.

  Put on your glasses.

  They wouldn’t help. In any case, they’re missing.

  What do you mean, missing?

  I mean I’m tired. I’m running out of thoughts.

  You! Running out of thoughts.

  Shouldn’t I be trying to move?

  Remember Grandfather’s first principle.

  The first principle of healing is rest. That was easy.

  Memory floats in, memory floats out. You don’t have to move the whole distance at once.

  What distance? How far? I was certain I was floating when I fell. I saw transparent leaves, the glass tree. It was given to my grandfather and, years after his death, passed on to me. Grand Dan wanted me to have it. I heard glass breaking; fragments scattered over the floor.

  You’re shivering, Georgie. You’re cold. Gather your coat around you. Keep calm.

  My coat is unbuttoned, though I’m wearing my cardigan beneath. I’m supposed to find pigskin gloves in London for my mother. I drove to the Haven to say goodbye, and asked what she wanted me to bring back. She was sitting small on the seat of her walker, shoulders seriously humped. When did Phil last have her bone density checked? I towered over her, though we’ve both shrunk. She raised her head and said, “Bring me pigskin gloves.”

  “When will you wear pigskin gloves in here?”

  She clucked her tongue as if she’d brought me into the world only to discover, almost eighty years later, that I’m useless. “You asked what I wanted.”

  “What colour, then?”

  “Piggy colour, what else?”

  Oh, Mother. I loved her at that moment, but what a motherlode is she. She’s a true mistress of evasion, but she never gives up. She’s the only resident of the Haven who is over a hundred, and describes herself as “Edwardian—just.” I’m convinced that she has managed to live so long because she’s thin and wiry and moves her body easily. She holds on to her walker because it helps her balance, but she can move without it, too. And she’s small. She inherited the short genes of the family, and I the tall.

  She’s also a lurker, capable of moving into minds. She’s been hovering at the edge of my mind every day of my life and here I am in my eighth decade and I am still someone’s child. Maybe that’s the way it is with mothers and daughters. Maybe she lurks in my sister’s mind, too. Ally lives so far away, she’s probably immune. I’ll phone and ask her sometime, after I’ve been rescued.

  If I’m rescued.

  Don’t think bad thoughts, Georgie. You’re alive.

  True enough. But I’ve missed my chance to break bread with the Queen. I’ll be the only one not to show. Will the Master of the Household discreetly remove my fork, my silver goblet, my chair?

  Sometimes I talk to Elizabeth, though she’s never heard my conversations. The fact that my life and hers were following a pattern early on did not escape my notice, and I began to think fondly of her as Lilibet, a kind of parallel life-mate. Once, I even saw her up close—not so many years ago. She was visiting Canada and on her way to open a new agricultural college in the next town. Her limo was driven all the way from Ottawa with a police escort and had to pass through Wilna Creek, through the intersection of Ross and Main. A policeman stood in front of pedestrians at the corner, intending to hold us back. When I saw the limo approach, I peered around the uniformed shoulder, and there she was. She waved directly at me from the back seat as if we were old friends, as if she had hear
d me talking to her all these years. She wore a bemused look on her face: Look where we find ourselves today.

  Well, look where I find myself today. Mouth dry, lips that feel like parched earth cracking. Is this the day of Lilibet’s celebration? And who refuses the Queen? I’d gladly march to the palace if only someone would help me to get up.

  I’m not from a family of whiners. I shall be steadfast—a word Grand Dan loved. I need a solid plan that does not allow an inch of room for feeling sorry for myself.

  But thoughts creep from their shelter, welcome or not. My family riffles like cards through my head. My history peers back at me. Who is dead? Who is not? With a mother as old as mine, you want to know your stories. The endings, I’m not so sure of. People die holding their secrets, their loves, their pains. History is rewritten. I know that Case hasn’t taken the time yet to hear the stories, but maybe someday she’ll want to know about the family that came before her.

  Who, for instance, would have predicted that I would end up sandwiched between a daughter in her fifties and a mother who is a hundred and three? Each has a free side to do as she pleases, but I am in the middle, tucked to both like cheese on rye. Case decided to love a jazz musician. Phil loved my father, who owned the dry goods store in town. I chose to love Harry, a jeweller. Phil and Case and I may be from different generations, but we still share the same unbroken line of the past.

  NINE

  And so I am stuck, a beetle on my back, talking to myself. I am the daughter of Philomena Danforth and the late Conrad Holmes, Conrad with a C. My father died after a long illness in 1945, shortly after my sister Ally’s wedding. His store was on Main Street in Wilna Creek, and everyone in town called him Mr. Holmes, even family. We all helped out in the store at one time or another, and frequently heard ourselves saying, “Let me ask Mr. Holmes about that. I’ll check with Mr. Holmes.” He died so long ago I have to strain to hear his shouts—and he did shout. At least that’s what I remember. He also wore a black patch, having been blinded by a stick in one eye as a child. I never met another member of his family, nor did my mother. His family was from the old country, he once said, and I saw his one eye water as he turned away. To me, the old country meant something vague, like the north of England, maybe a coal town in Wales. He had been an only child, and his parents were dead long before Ally and I were born. In some ways, Mr. Holmes was a mystery man in town.