Bursting Bubbles (22 page)

Georgiana laughed. Her mother must have spoken to some other old lady. Whoever was on reception must have put her through to the wrong room.

“Take my advice,” said Adele. “Don’t ever take drugs, Georgie. God only knows what you’d be like if you did.”

On Christmas morning, Georgiana is sent to pick up Mrs Kilgour. Naturally, she hasn’t told her mother how difficult their guest can be. Partly because she doesn’t want to discourage her, and partly because her mother wouldn’t believe her. Especially not after she found Mrs Kilgour so interesting and charming over the phone.

But on the way to St Joan’s misgivings about the day ahead start to settle in Georgiana’s heart like pigeons on a wall. There are a few things about their guest that it might have been useful for Adele Shiller to know. Maybe Georgiana should have told her mother – a woman known for her sophistication and fashion sense – about Mrs Kilgour’s car-crash style of dressing. Maybe she should have mentioned how ungrateful and complaining she is. How she has the personality of a stink bomb. How she thinks Georgiana is shallow as a stream in a drought and has poor-quality air for brains. How she never has a good word to say about anyone. How she falls asleep. The image of Mrs Kilgour, dressed in a mixture of plaids, stripes and floral prints and a baseball cap, sound asleep at the dinner table, her head nodding dangerously towards the roast potatoes, dances in Georgiana’s head all the way to St Joan’s. It is only the thought of finally finding out more about Anderson that stops her from turning the car around and telling her mother the old lady wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come after all.

Mrs Kilgour is sitting on her bed, waiting, wearing a velvet suit that doesn’t clash with her hair, a corsage of tiny bells and balls and plastic holly and a string of pearls. Beside her are her walking stick, a sober grey coat and hat, and a canvas bag.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, heaving herself to her feet. “You look like you were expecting someone else.”

Georgiana isn’t sure that she didn’t get someone else. Mrs Kilgour looks as if she was once First Lady. “Nothing. I’ve just never seen you dressed up. You look nice.”

“Well, how did you think I’d be dressed? It is Christmas, isn’t it? Not Groundhog Day.”

“I guess I figured you’d dress like normal.” And Georgiana is caught so off guard that she says, “I didn’t really think you’d come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mrs Kilgour grabs her cane and thumps it on the floor. “It has to be better than staying here eating turkey roll and listening to them all sing ‘Away in the Manger’ off key.”

Georgiana certainly hopes so.

In another surprising move, Mrs Kilgour doesn’t once criticize Georgiana’s driving the way she often criticizes her pushing of the wheelchair. Instead, she chats away happily, pointing out things that weren’t there before – that development, that business park, that shopping centre – and things that have disappeared, mainly trees.

When they reach the Shillers’, she greets Mrs Shiller with a hug. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she says. “I haven’t been in a real home since I moved into St Joan’s. It’s like being in jail, but the food’s slightly better.”

Mrs Shiller says the pleasure is all theirs. She’s really been looking forward to meeting her.

Mrs Kilgour settles onto the sofa, exuding peace and goodwill and complimenting the Shillers on their lovely home. “And you also have a terrific daughter, of course,” says Mrs Kilgour. “She’s a real credit to you.”

Georgiana gawps at her, smiling and holding a glass of sherry. Like the First Lady at a reception for foreign dignitaries. She doesn’t sound as if she’s being sarcastic.

“When you get to my age, people treat you like you’re a very young child or just very stupid. But not Georgiana. She treats me like I’m a real person.”

“You mean because we always argue?” asks Georgiana.

Everybody laughs.

Georgiana’s aunt and uncle arrive with their dog, Hank, two seasonal shopping bags and hugs all around.

Liz and Bruno also find Mrs Kilgour charming and delightful.

“Now it really feels like Christmas,” says Liz, squeezing Mrs Kilgour’s hand.

Bruno, who owns an antique store, is interested in the vintage corsage pinned to her jacket. “I haven’t seen anything like that in years.”

“Has to be at least sixty years old,” says Mrs Kilgour. “I probably bought it in the five and ten.”

Hank sits on Mrs Kilgour’s lap. Apparently she’s always loved Jack Russells. And they her.

Mrs Shiller bought several small gifts for Mrs Kilgour. Georgiana told her not to bother. “She can be kind of fussy,” said Georgiana. Meaning that she wouldn’t like them. “And it’ll be embarrassing that she has no presents for us.”

“It’s more embarrassing for her to sit there like a hostage while everybody else opens theirs,” countered her mother.

But of course Mrs Kilgour, who is determined to disprove everything Georgiana knows about her, loves her gifts.

“How thoughtful,” she coos over the slipper socks. The bolster cushion is just what she needs for reading in bed. And a box of chocolates, what a treat! She hasn’t had Belgian chocolates since her last visit to Brussels. “Which, believe you me, was a very long time ago.”

In the canvas bag are presents for the Shillers.

An antique silver fountain pen for Mr Shiller.

“It’s a beaut,” says Mr Shiller. “It reminds me of one my grandad had.”

“Spanish.” Bruno turns it over in his hand. “Early nineteenth century.”

“It belonged to my husband’s father,” explains Mrs Kilgour. “He never used anything else.”

A pale blue glass vase for Mrs Shiller.

“It’s exquisite.” Mrs Shiller holds it up to the light, the glass so fine it seems spun out of air.

“I picked it up in Venice,” says Mrs Kilgour. “God knows how we got it back here in one piece. But my husband was a genius at packing.”

A hand-embroidered Chinese wedding blouse for Georgiana.

Once again, Georgiana can’t hide her surprise. A wedding blouse! It has to be the blouse Mrs Kilgour would have worn if she’d married Anderson. For once, Georgiana has nothing to say except, “Thank you.”

Even Bruno has never seen anything like the wedding blouse before.

“I was hoping I’d find the right person to pass it on to. I’d hate to think of it just going to the Goodwill. But you should save it for a special occasion.”

“You must have done a lot of travelling,” says Mrs Shiller.

“In my day,” says Mrs Kilgour. “Mr Kilgour and I worked as a team for many years. We were always going somewhere.”

All the while the presents were being opened, Liz kept looking at Mrs Kilgour. As if she thought she knew her. Now she says, “Kilgour… Kilgour… You know, that name is so familiar. From when I was a kid, I think.” Liz grew up in the area. “I’m sure my parents knew someone named Kilgour.” She shakes the red bow she’s still holding in her hand. “Their name was Fieldstone. Ring any bells?”

“Richard and Agnes!” says Mrs Kilgour, as if she’d only been waiting to be asked. “Your father had the newspaper store at the junction. My husband was Mordecai. They played poker together.”

“Mordecai!” Liz claps her hands. “That’s it! Mordecai Kilgour. Morty. He did magic tricks. And he ran the
Valley Herald
.”

“That’s right. We’d been living in New York when we weren’t on assignment, but we came out here and took over the paper when Morty’s father passed.”

“That’s right,” says Liz. “I remember my mom talking about it. You were a reporter before that, weren’t you?”

So at least now Georgiana knows what Mrs Kilgour was doing in Vietnam.

But Mrs Kilgour doesn’t mention Vietnam. She just nods.

“The
Valley Herald
was a fine paper,” says Bruno. “One of the best small presses in the country. It was still going strong when I moved out here. Didn’t you win a Pulitzer?”

In fact, the
Valley Herald
won three Pulitzer Prizes when the Kilgours owned it: two for local reporting and one for public service.

“We loved the
Herald
,” says Mrs Kilgour. “We both did a lot of things we enjoyed or were proud of. But the
Herald
was the best on both counts.”

Georgiana sits back, listening and thinking. She’s learning a lot about Mrs Kilgour, but none of it, of course, is what she expected to find out. Not even close.

Unless universal peace were declared or Santa himself made an unexpected appearance, the day couldn’t go better. There are no awkward moments, no embarrassing scenes, no tempers snapping like turtles. No one dozes off over her roast beef. By the time dinner is done Georgiana’s pigeons of misgiving are all sound asleep. Georgiana, however, is wide awake, mesmerized by this new Mrs Kilgour. Who is easily the star of the day. Where hasn’t she been? She’s crossed the Himalayas, driven across Europe, sailed the Java Sea. Whom hasn’t she met? Presidents and peasants, celebrities and criminals, generals and gangsters. Her stories are more interesting than most Hollywood movies, and more entertaining. Georgiana’s only disappointment is that she never mentions Anderson. She never says, “When I was in Vietnam” or “When I was with Anderson”. Never suggests that anyone ever died in her arms. The pain must still be too great.

After dinner the men take Hank for a walk. Moving into the living room with coffee and cookies, the women start chatting about Christmases past. Favourite relatives. Funniest stories. Best memories. It’s that kind of holiday, of course. Georgiana can see that she’s not going to hear anything about Mrs Kilgour’s lost love now, and excuses herself to take a call from Claudelia. Because it includes a list of what presents they got, it’s a long conversation. When she returns, Adele Shiller is talking about Georgiana’s grandmother. There’s something in the tone of her mother’s voice that makes Georgiana stop rather than stride into the room. Not eavesdropping, but definitely paying attention. No one seems to notice that she’s there.

“It was just terrible,” her mother is saying. “It was a Saturday morning. We’d only gone into town to do some shopping. When we got back, my mother-in-law was at the foot of the stairs, dead, and Georgiana was beside her, holding her hand and crying. Poor Georgiana. She was only four.”

Apparently someone did know she was there. Mrs Kilgour looks over at Georgiana, rooted to a spot just outside the door. “What a terrible thing for you,” she says.

From somewhere very far away, Georgiana mumbles, “Yeah.”

But she has no memory of that morning at all.

Until this moment – her mother, aunt and Mrs Kilgour now all looking at her, the tree lights blinking, the sunlight leaning against the living-room window – Georgiana had always thought her grandmother died when she was a baby. Hundreds of miles away.

So now she not only knows why Mrs Kilgour was in Vietnam, she also knows why she’s always been so afraid of old people falling down and dying – so afraid of death.

It’s
Christmas morning. All over the country children are shrieking, lights are shining and presents are being unwrapped. Though not in the Grossmans’ house. The only sign of this joyous season are the cards Mrs Swedger has put on display in the living room on silver ribbon. Most of them are from companies and corporations. There’s no tree, no lights, no Yule log in the window and no wreath on the door. Why bother? When Asher was little they always had a six-foot tree and blue lights strung along the edge of the roof. More recently, however, Asher and his father usually stay in New York over the holidays because Albert has so many social engagements to attend, and that tradition has been abandoned.

But this year they aren’t staying in the city, either.

Asher, still in his pyjamas, pads into the kitchen in his bare feet. He makes himself a cappuccino and puts on the radio. Bing Crosby starts singing about a white Christmas.

There are seven large and very expensive hampers lined up on the kitchen table. They contain smoked hams and sausages; exotic cheeses, fruits, chutneys and jams; tins of crackers and cookies and chocolates; jars of nuts, pickled fish and unexpired caviar. The hampers are presents from some of Albert Grossman’s satisfied clients. They come every year, as much a part of the Christmas ritual as the tree at Rockefeller Center. If Albert Grossman were here, he’d take out what he wanted and regift the rest, but Albert Grossman isn’t here. This year Albert’s in Dubai and can’t get home.

“You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you,” he said to Asher after he broke the news. It wasn’t a question. “You can go to friends.”

“Sure, of course I’ll be OK,” Asher assured him. “There are a couple of parties happening. Claudelia’ll be at her grandmother’s in Massachusetts, but I can go to Will’s on Christmas Day.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Albert promised. “Soon as this business is settled.”

“That’d be great, Dad.” But the thought that skulked into Asher’s head like an uninvited guest was:
When?

Asher has been ignoring the hampers for several days, but now he stands, cup in hand, gazing at them as if they’re a flock of birds trapped in an oil spill and wondering what to do about them. He’s already given one to Mrs Swedger to take to her family, and he can bring one to the Lundquists’, but what about the other six?

And then he has the very vivid image of Mrs Dunbar, running around the centre in a Santa hat, handing out the oranges and miniature candy bars she managed to talk one of the big supermarkets into donating to the under-fives. It’s a no-brainer! Why didn’t he think of her before? The centre is closed today, of course, but every year the Reverend Dunbar’s church makes a Christmas dinner for people who claim to have nowhere else to go. Mrs Dunbar will be able to use the hampers. He picks up his phone from the counter, not so much as glancing at the time. He’s pretty sure that Mrs Dunbar never sleeps.

This is how Asher had planned to spend the day. He would mooch around the house in his pyjamas all morning – maybe watch a movie or catch up on the news, check his emails, call his aunt in Toronto. At around one he’d get dressed (black suit, red shirt, green tie, suspenders decorated with reindeer and elves) and drive over to Will’s for dinner at three. He’d spend the afternoon and some of the evening there, and then he’d come home and call Claudelia at her grandmother’s. A perfect day. Peaceful. Calm. Festive but measured.