Forgiveness (28 page)

There were two red roses in a thin glass vase on the bedside table. Our dad had been there already. He had said his goodbyes. I saw his handwriting on the little square card.

The boys are on their way.

She had been bathed. Her hair was soft. It was whiter than I had ever seen it. Her hands were clean, even under her fingernails. Her fingers retained only a faint shade of yellow. She looked so very peaceful. Her thin arms were outside the bedding, which was perfectly folded right under them. I’d never seen her sleep like that. She always slept on her side, usually out of the blankets with the bottom folded up over her legs. But she was not really sleeping now. She was essentially in a coma. Her teeth were grinding a little, but she did not speak.

We both whispered into her ear.
We love you. We are here.

Daniel and I lingered in the hospital room for two hours before leaving for the night. At home, we hugged Dad and Susan at the door. They had been sitting on the floor in the entryway, waiting for us. They would have been sitting there had we come home at 3 a.m. We had tea. We cried. We waited.

The next morning, the rest of the MacLean family arrived—Grandpa Ralph, Uncle Doug, Uncle Blake and Aunt Marilyn.

We grasped at straws. We asked about organ transplants. But it
wasn’t just her liver. Her kidneys seemed to be failing. She was only fifty-one but everything was shutting down. Her body was broken. We knew that. Her spirit had been broken for many years. Without that larger-than-life spirit, her small frame withered.

She was lost.

We met at the hospital to say our final goodbyes. Grandpa and I went down to the Tim Hortons in the lobby. We talked about funeral details. We were avoiding seeing her in that state. Avoiding having to face the grim reality of the situation.

Stephen came by early in the afternoon. He had taken something to calm his nerves. He was clearly in a lot of pain. He was shaking and said very little. When he did speak, it was lighter than a whisper. Grandpa—the old soldier—was upset. His little girl was dying and he was beside himself. We all were, except for Daniel. He kept his head. He was still my fearless little brother.

Twenty minutes into our tea, Daniel came rushing out of the elevator.

“You have to come now. Mom’s up.”

We moved as quickly as we could. The elevator seemed to take an eternity. As we rode it up, Daniel said, “She sat up. Her eyes were open. The nurse said some people do that just before …” His voice trailed off.

When the elevator doors opened, we speed-walked down the hall. As we turned the corner into the room, I heard the nurse say, “She’s going.”

Everyone was crying. Uncle Doug stood a few feet away and was looking up at the ceiling. He was whispering,
You’re loved, you’re loved, you’re loved.

Daniel and I took our places at her side. We leaned in close. I stroked her head. We kissed her face. One last time, between her Bookends, she closed her eyes and shifted a little.

I felt her final breath on my left cheek.

Good night, Mom. Love you.

I hoped she felt as if it were 1986. I hoped she remembered Daniel’s ruddy, round face smiling at her. I hoped she saw me looking at her, biting one side of my lip. I hoped she was caressing my face, telling me I had a golden heart.

The morning after my mom’s death was the coldest day of the year in Medicine Hat. The back deck railing was caked in ice. It looked like it had just rolled in off the North Atlantic.

It was how I felt. Ice cold.

Mom hadn’t wanted a funeral. She never did anything for show. Why should she have one now?

But funerals are for the living. We needed closure, we needed one another. We gathered a few days later at the Saamis Memorial Funeral Chapel, a converted old brick farmhouse at the bottom of Scholten Hill, at the opposite end of Kingsway from the food bank.

Mom hadn’t known a preacher. So we brought in a sergeant from the Salvation Army. At 11 a.m., people began to arrive. Daniel and I greeted everyone at the door—cousins, friends from City Hall … the faces washed over me. Daniel and I waited until everyone was in and then took our places in the first pew to the left. In a court of law, it’s where the defendant would have sat. Bagpipes played. The minister said a few words. I heard hardly any of it.

Then it was our turn to speak. Daniel and I walked up the three steps. Daniel read a letter first. I can’t remember a single word he said. When he finished he stepped to the side, and I put my hands on each side of the lectern. I was bracing myself. Daniel softly placed his hand on mine. Immediately I pulled my hand away. I was afraid if I felt any softness, I’d crumble.

I asked the folks in the room to remember my mom as she once was, to remember her spirit, her grace, her spunk. I told them to remember their delight, not their sorrow, to let those memories—those delights—be her final resting place. I told friends and family I
had found solace. I lied: I felt neither grace nor solace. I felt fear. I felt a mighty undercurrent and I was petrified it would sweep me under.

I felt ashamed. I felt guilty.

After Christmas, I packed up for my return to Halifax. I had just one stop to make before heading out of town. I had to pick up Mom’s ashes.

I drove back to the funeral home. What was left of her cremated body was handed to me packed into a white plastic medicine bottle. Her name was taped to it. She was bottle number S7. I packed her into my suitcase, wrapped in a plastic Safeway grocery bag.

I thought I was fine.

I was wrong.

I began drifting before the jet’s wheels touched down in Halifax. I did not sleep for three days. Jade was relieved to have me home and under her careful, watchful eyes. I pretended to be happy to see her. The blues and whites of late-night television washed over my dull face. I knew she was lying in bed, eyes wide open too. I knew she knew.

I maintained my routine. Shower, breakfast, class. I mastered the art of pretense. Everything was good. Except I did not take a single note in class for six weeks. I did not touch Jade in as many weeks. Night after night, I’d fall asleep in front of the television. I’d wake and stare blankly at the set for another few hours, waiting for dawn. I’d be out of the apartment before Jade awoke. The lectures washed over me. Constitutional Law, Evidence, Taxation. I couldn’t have cared less. I’d go for late-night walks in Point Pleasant Park. I’d stand at the water’s edge. The high midnight moon would use the ocean as a dance floor. Its clarity would pierce me.

I was dulling myself. I was terrified. I could not shake the fear that had overcome me in the plane somewhere over New Brunswick. That fear struck me at my core. It was paralyzing.

I was sleeping a couple hours a night. Around midnight, Jade
would come out of the bathroom after washing up. She would lean over me on the couch and ask me to come to bed. I wouldn’t even look up.

“In a bit.”

She’d touch my shoulder or my arm as she left the room. I’d fall back asleep on the couch. Some nights, I’d wake and drag myself to bed. Most nights, I wouldn’t.

This went on for three months. We spoke little. She was waiting for me to turn a corner that I could not even see. She was patient. I was lost. One night around 4 a.m., I came to bed. The moon was full. Jade was sitting up, looking out the window. I could see she hadn’t slept all night. I sat on the side of the bed. She slowly turned to face me.

“Do you still love me?” she asked. She had been asking herself this question all night long. Tears pooled in her harvest-moon eyes.

I felt my spine slump. I knew at that moment I had hit my own rock bottom.

“Jade, I’m sorry. I’m in this fog. The only thing I know for sure is the answer to that question.”

She had been my horizon. Behind me, in front of me, I had seen only her. But in that moment she seemed so far away. I seemed so far away from myself. We held each other as we fell asleep in our tiny, moonlit bedroom.

“Remember what you’re made of,” she said.

I cried tears of gratitude. For her. For Grandma Mitsue and Grandpa Ralph—for showing me a way out.

After that night, things gradually improved for me. I bounced back. Jade pulled me up, pulled me out. Life regained colour. My studies became interesting again. I volunteered on a few political campaigns. Mostly, I stuck close to Jade.

The night before I graduated from law school, I rented the Queen’s Suite at the Westin Nova Scotian. We could see our
apartment from the massive balcony. That night, it felt as if we had never left the stairs of the college theatre. I proposed to my best friend. Jade told me that, in her mind, she had said yes three years earlier.

I was offered a job at a Bay Street law firm, and we moved to Toronto a week later. One day that summer, my friend Sachin Aggarwal, a political organizer, asked me to join him on the patio at the Café Diplomatico in Little Italy. We had hardly said hello when he asked me what I thought of Michael Ignatieff. I had read most of his books while studying political science. I had especially liked
Blood and Belonging.
We discussed pros and cons as if the author weren’t a real person. Ignatieff was smart, good. His stand on the Iraq War, bad. All in all, a very interesting person with real potential to make an impact. The conversation did not have a speculative air to it.

“He’s willing to run?” I said doubtfully.

“We’re going to see tomorrow. Why don’t you join the conversation?”

I was curious, so I went. A small group of Liberals, some middle-aged, some young, met Michael in one of the towers in which I had recently interviewed. He was indeed keen to run for the party. He wanted to discuss details. Which riding? How much money would we need to raise? How would the prime minister react? Mostly he wanted to know two things of the strangers seated around the table. Could we deliver? Could we be trusted? Michael was more concerned with the first question. His wife, Zsuzsanna Zsohar, a fierce Hungarian, was determined to know the answer to the second question.

After Michael and Zsuzsanna left, we charted out a small tour for Michael. He hadn’t lived in Canada for some time; there were many people to meet and many places to visit. We all lived in Toronto, so that was easy. So was Ottawa and Montreal.

Who knows anyone in Calgary?
I put up my hand.

Who knows anyone in Halifax?
I put up my hand.

“Okay, that settles it. Sakamoto will run the first tour.”

Political tours aren’t much different than concert tours. Having worked with my uncle Ron on his music business, coordinating this tour was like hopping on a bike after years without riding. It is, after all, show biz. As we travelled together, Michael would become professorial, expounding on Cartier’s first exploratory voyage of 1534 as we flew across the Gulf of St. Lawrence, or walking me through Riel and the North-West Rebellion of 1885 as we passed high above the prairies. I was always more concerned about getting him and Zsuzsanna to our destination on time and in one piece.

Our first tour ended in Calgary. We spent the day meeting local folks, oil executives, and a few journalists. Then I escorted them back to their hotel room.

“Okay, guys,” I said, “I’m off to visit my brother. I’ll be back at 7 a.m. tomorrow to get you to the airport.”

Michael stopped me on the way out and told me that he wanted me to know he and Zsuzsanna were both fond of me. I smiled and bowed my head a little. I had become fond of them too.

I remained close to them throughout the coming months and years. When Michael became Leader of the Opposition, he asked me to come to Ottawa and work with him. Jade was reluctant. She didn’t want to live in Ottawa, but she didn’t want me to work out of town either. I told Michael that I could help out for only six months.

During those six months, shuttling between my home in Toronto and Parliament Hill, I almost felt like I lived at Toronto’s island airport. During the week, I shared a condo with two old political pals, Alexis Levine and Sachin Aggarwal. My bedroom consisted of two mattresses, a toiletries bag, and the clothes I had brought with me that week.

My first day at the office was a cold, dreary one. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I made my way up to Parliament Hill for the first time as an active participant. I stopped for a moment at the centennial flame. It flickered and danced. I thought of all the nights Mom and I had tuned in to watch Knowlton Nash. I was a
long way from my Superman pyjamas and peanut butter toast. I was a long way from Medicine Hat. I was a long way from my mom. I tried to push that thought out of my mind. I did not want to be late for my first meeting.

The Leader’s of the Opposition’s office is a cavernous, woodpanelled room. A few people huddled around Michael’s table. A hundred decisions awaited: staff hires, parliamentary positions, scheduling, Question Period, short-term strategy. We spoke for thirty minutes, then broke to get the first news cycle of the day and some breakfast.

As we walked out of his office, Michael pointed to the large room next door, the Opposition boardroom. “That was King’s War Room,” he said. The current Opposition boardroom was never meant to be the Prime Minister’s Office. But Mackenzie King loved that room. When he was elected prime minister in 1920, he refused to relinquish it. In politics, real estate is everything. For the duration of King’s reign, that room remained the Prime Minister’s Office. He personally saw to its total renovation.
H
ONOUR
T
HY
K
ING
was inscribed in the archway above the boardroom’s main entry. Every major Canadian decision about the Second World War took place between those four walls.

I took a deep breath. I had a meeting in that room in thirty minutes.

I tried to maintain my composure while I met a few Members of Parliament in King’s War Room. The meeting lasted about thirty minutes and I don’t recall a single word spoken. I was thinking about the men who had once met around that very table, reviewing reports, sipping water, writing notes. Making decisions.

Like the decision to send Ralph Augustus MacLean to war.