Perdita (19 page)

Toronto—1898

January 22

I am glad to have remembered to bring my journal with me this afternoon—for it is in these quiet hours, when Mother sleeps so peacefully, that I am left with my thoughts and I sometimes grow restless trying to arrange my impressions. As ever, if I commit them to paper, it is as if I express myself to a trusted friend and my mind clears of some of its confusion. To be sure, our sojourn here—thus far—has brought me many solitary hours. Yet I feel that I am not overly
lonely.

I must not think of these hours as heavy and monotonous, but rather fruitful spaces for thinking. Perhaps this diary is, in some ways, my mind's manner of drawing; these words begin as rough strokes as I strive to recount my experiences, and then, as I grow more confident, my thoughts become more subtle and nuanced. What an unusual and yet delightful
image!

Perhaps it is being indoors so much that makes me restless sometimes. I watch the orchard fill up with snow almost as a bird might, looking out at the world through the bars of her cage. Why is it that the most interesting things seem to happen when I am outdoors, as if Nature tugs at my hand and pulls me headlong to share in some discovery. Such was the case with my stumbling upon the fountain yesterday—and of my meeting with Dr. Reid, the physician in charge of Mother's
care.

At first introduction, he seems a somewhat rough and disapproving man, and yet, as I grow accustomed to his direct and almost provoking manner, I find I like him. He is obviously a gifted doctor and is extraordinarily gentle with Mother. She trusts him; I can see it in her eyes as she looks at him and tries to follow his commands without any protestation. Tad, I think, was not a little angry with Dr. Reid for his abrupt and detailed inquiries into our habits and the foods Mother has been accustomed to eat—including some peculiar insinuations about her consumption of wine. But I was asked to leave the room for the remainder of that interview, and I fear he was even more probing. I am sure it offended Tad, for when he emerged from the doctor's office, his brow was black
indeed.

I have since obtained a somewhat better sense of the man. He must be in his late thirties, or perhaps a little older, and would be a handsome man if he did not wear a habitual frown upon his face. Except around his patients, his visage seems to communicate disapproval of the human race and its proclivity to disease and illness. Yet, I have misjudged him, I am sure; perhaps he glowers to hide other emotions. To be sure, as a physician, he has attended to much suffering and even untimely
death.

Yesterday, the nurses were delayed in coming to bathe Mother and then, when they did arrive, they requested that I leave them to their task for an hour or so. I was secretly glad, for it was a beautiful afternoon; the temperature was almost warm, the sun was shining so brilliantly, and the sky was a bold, fresh blue. I stepped downstairs with a lighter heart, and I was filled with a sudden and peaceful gratitude for the caring hands that surround Mother, and I felt as if I might take a respite from my
watch.

I looked about for Aunt Louise but could not find her, so I got my coat and then, once outdoors, I wandered alone down one of the hospital ground's pathways until I came to a glade of very tall white pines. They towered above me like great, gentle giants, and I rested my hands against one of them, listening to the sound of their boughs moving softly. And then, because I did not move and waited with no expectation, I heard the whole forest sigh. It was such a beautiful sound—the wind moving from one end to the other and all the trees stirring as it moved past them so that, all together, they emitted a long, soft, fragrant breath. My eyes filled with tears, for I felt that somehow my pines at home were there with me in that gentle sigh, and that these trees were
friends.

The snow was not deep under the forest's canopy, and so I ventured off the path and into its dark coolness—but I grew chill without the sun, and so I soon stepped out into a modest clearing that bore the faint tracks of some small animal in the melting snow. I quickly discerned that I was in a sort of walled garden, and at its center was what I took to be a fountain containing a statue that was disproportionately large in relation to its basin. There were still remnants of snow on three rather weatherworn forms, and a chickadee sat atop the foremost figure eyeing me
saucily.

My first thought was that here were the Graces, for the three human forms were certainly Grecian in their aspect, and I thought I discerned Thalia languidly holding a spray of flowers in her upraised hand. But on closer inspection, I realized that the object she was grasping was a pair of shears, and instantly I knew that here was Atropos readying herself to sever the thread of life spun by her sister Clotho. I brushed off more of the snow and discovered Lachesis between the other two Fates, and suddenly I grew pensive. It is she who assigns each man his portion of time. I wondered what had brought me there, face-to-face with them, and I grew uneasy thinking of
Mother.

“It's a peculiar statue for a hospital's grounds, isn't it?” a voice said, and I whirled around to see Dr. Reid standing not ten paces from me. He had on a dark coat, but no hat, and he held one hand to his forehead to shade his eyes from the bright light. “Not very cheery,” he added in his gruff way. “Do you know who they
are?”

I nodded
silently.

“It belonged to the family who lived here before. I should probably have it removed, though I rather like
it.”

There was a long silence between us, and I hardly knew what to say to him; it seemed almost disrespectful to pursue a course of idle chatter in front of the three
Fates.

As if reading my thoughts, he approached me, and taking my arm firmly, he led me back to the pathway, but instead of directing our steps toward the hospital, he turned us toward one of the cottages at the far end of the property and seemed content to lead me toward it without any explanation. I shivered involuntarily, and then breathed a sigh of relief as the sun reappeared and shone with bright intensity upon
us.

“Are you chilled?” he asked, and drew my arm closer to his. He pulled the cuff of my sleeve down over my glove as he did so—just as a father might to a daughter—but I felt strangely shy of him. Still I said nothing, and it is a wonder that he did not find me rude, but I was keenly aware of his form and uncomfortable at this sudden and unasked-for
proximity.

“There. That's better,” he finally remarked, patting my hand. “Now you are back among the living where you belong and not among those morbid Greeks!” And then, much to my astonishment, his face broke into an almost mischievous
smile.

I could not help myself, so surprised was I at the appearance of such an expression on
his
face, that I
laughed.

“Dr. Reid,” I said, finally finding my tongue, “even the gods must bow to the will of the Fates; surely medicine must do the
same.”

“No doubt. No doubt,” he replied affably. “But we medical men make that third one—the lady with her scissors—we make her earn her keep. There are as many times as not when she has had her shears readied and we have managed to delay her
task.”

I think perhaps he said this to assuage my fears about Mother, for he must have guessed the direction of my thoughts; therefore, I tried to be light in my
rejoinder.

“Well,” I said, “then do not remove the statue, but commission an addition and place a doctor there among the
sisters.”

Dr. Reid smiled wryly at that, seeming to find amusement in the image that my words had conjured. “Would such a grouping give my patients comfort—and perhaps more confidence in my abilities?” he bantered, smiling broadly now and arresting my
steps.

I paused and could not help but smile, thinking of the rather serious and even sternly scientific doctors whom I had seen in attendance at the hospital. I tilted my head slightly and replied, “Your patients perhaps—though I am doubtful as to your esteemed colleagues.” It was my turn to grin a little impishly at
him.

Now it was his laugh that filled the air around us. “Well, Miss Brice…” he said, and he peered into my face as if inspecting a new patient and within his rights to do so. No, that wasn't it—I think he scrutinized me more as a subject that had surprised him a little, a man who had inured himself to the
unexpected.

I remained calm under his inspection, and in meeting his eyes, I took my own measure of him. Perhaps it was this that seemed to startle him, for he betrayed more of his own self in that inquisitive stare. I sensed a deep current of restlessness in him, moving below the austere outlines of his face—and then I thought I saw in his expression the eyes of a creature whose practice perhaps suited his proclivities but not his imagination. There was something more he wanted; it was as if a shadow flitted unexpectedly below a glass surface, appearing and then disappearing with equal rapidity. I stepped back and lowered my eyes, as if I feared to intrude upon the privacy of this inner world I had inadvertently
glimpsed.

Again, he must have caught my thoughts, for it seemed that he grew a little abashed. “Do you? Are you—an admirer of the classics?” He asked it awkwardly—the doctor who had fired his questions at poor Tad with the skill of a marksman and sympathies of an
assassin!

“Oh, yes,” I said. “And my mother, too,” I quickly added. “She is a most accomplished Latinist and knows the Greek poets quite well.” I felt myself becoming awkward, and I longed to go back to the
hospital.

“Do you read to her?” he asked somewhat brusquely. And I explained that I had not of late, for she mostly slept in the afternoons. He encouraged me to do so and to select her favorite works—the mental stimulation would be most beneficial, he
explained.

I was indeed grateful for this counsel and thanked him. Then he became the doctor again and I—I was the patient's daughter. His professional demeanor returned and settled upon his shoulders like the great, heavy coat he was wearing. He offered to accompany me back to the hospital, but I politely declined and made my way alone. I was determined not to look back, but I could not help myself from turning at the bottom of the stairs. He was still standing where I had left him, staring after me. He moved abruptly away and so did
I.

An unaccountable experience! But I am firmer in my regard for him as a result. This morning I brought a copy of Hesiod from the library, with Dr. McTavish's permission of course, and I read Mother a few passages from
Works
and
Days
. I also procured
Alcestis
and
Prometheus
Bound
from Dr. McT.'s collection—though Mother loves these two plays, they are perhaps not well suited to our circumstances, and I am fearful that they may depress her spirits. Dr. Reid, however, nodded approvingly when I showed him these volumes and even stayed for a few minutes while I read to
her.

Mother's eyes lit up as I began. “‘Pierian Muses, bringers of fame: come…'”

To be sure he is both a perceptive man and a good
doctor!

January 24

I am feeling quite desolate without Tad. I do my best to keep my spirits up, but I feel a strange hollowness in my body and my heart aches for his company. I sometimes find myself so restless here, as if I am incomplete somehow and fearful that I have forgotten something. I am ever drawing in my skirts close around me, and there is nothing I like so much as to wrap myself up in a throw and sit before the fire quietly listening to Dr. McT.'s stories just as if we were back at his lodge. I think Dr. McTavish intuits my distress, and he has been so kind and attentive; he is determined to keep me busy so that I won't mope. He claims that he has grown fiercely attached to my smile and is determined to see it several times a day—at the very
least.

It is strange, but I am
uneasy
that I am beginning to feel more
at
my
ease
in the city: I suppose I really mean Dr. McTavish's household. To be sure I am still quite a stranger to having my soup served first—and then to have it placed before me by Peter, a man thrice my age! Dr. McTavish's servants address me as Miss Brice, but I am ever at a loss as to how I should address them. Leah is the little girl who sweeps and cleans my fireplace, and she is the only one whose name I utter with any ease—though I have taken care to show her, poor thing, to cover her mouth with her apron to prevent her from breathing in the dust from the ashes. I think she holds me quite in awe; how surprised she would be to know that I have performed the same task myself many a
time!

This morning Dr. McTavish and I visited one of his old friends—a Mrs. Ross. She is a well-to-do elderly lady whose husband was a parliamentarian, and it seems he was also fond of taxidermy. She lives in what I am told is a fashionable area of the city; there is a beautiful boulevard of trees in the center of the street, and in this, the winter season, their boughs are snow-covered and they seem so stately. It was a chilly morning, and so we took the smaller carriage, and on the way Dr. McTavish showed me the mansions of some of his friends. I can remember only a few of their names—the Masseys and Jarvises, I think, and
Flavelles.

The properties are impressive and the homes massive, but I find them sinister and grim, almost too proper in their dispositions. Even today in the damp and chill, there were many street sweepers busy at their work while the houses frowned upon them. I think I am fond of the cottages near the hospital most of all; these other grand front yards and gardens seem so well behaved and almost too beautiful to enjoy. I am not quite sure what I mean by this, except that I know I am meant to look at them and admire them; I can't imagine ever belonging to such places, and they seem to condescend to agree with
me.

Hazelborn
—the name of Mrs. Ross's property—is filled with the strangest assortment of stuffed creatures. They are all so lifelike and yet so lifeless. Mrs. Ross complains vociferously—in a very heavy Scottish accent—about having the “horrid things” about her all the time, and desires that Dr. McTavish take charge of all the birds in her collection. They seem innumerable, but he is to take them off her hands a few at a time. We returned in the carriage with an osprey (
Pandion
haliaetus
), a somewhat moldy sora (
Porzana
carolina
)—Dr. McTavish quite startled Mrs. Ross with his extraordinary rendition of this bird's strange whinny—and a large and magnificent raven (
Corvus
corax
), whom I have put on my dressing table. I have named him Edgar in honor of Poe, and I hung the strand of pearls that Aunt Louise gave me around his neck, which I am sure pleases him to no
end.