The Missing One (7 page)

I skim down the Google links for Halmstrom, and then something catches my eye:
Harry Halmstrom, The Ida May Assisted Living Facility, Vancouver, British Columbia
.

Seattle and Vancouver aren't that far from each other. I click on the link. The Ida May Assisted Living Facility lists the names of its residents, and there is a Harry Halmstrom, along with the phone number of Jenny Zimmerman, his care worker.

My mother's father is dead and I'm pretty sure that his name was Theodore. She never talked about him and yet I grew up knowing that she hated him and he died. I have no memory of any conversation at all, in fact, about my grandparents. Presumably she shut me down if I ever asked. This, I realize, is just not normal. It's not just my genetic inheritance, it's Finn's now. Doug can trace his family back to the 1700s. My father's MacKenzie clan goes back through generations of ministers and bagpipe players. But the other half of our lineage apparently vanished the day my mother died.

I think about getting up and going through the house to the study to ask my father about all this, but then I'd have
to explain to him what I am doing, and I couldn't even begin to do that because obviously it's not normal to be doing this. So I pick up my phone and call Alice's mobile.

She doesn't answer. I leave her a slightly strangulated message saying that I was just checking she got back to London safely.

It is nine o'clock in Sussex, but only 1 p.m. in Vancouver.

I drink half of my glass of wine in three gulps then I dial the number of Harry Halmstrom's carer at the Ida May Assisted Living Facility.

I don't really expect anyone to pick up, but someone does, after just a couple of rings.

‘Oh. Hello.' For a moment, I can't think what on earth to say. Then I take a breath. ‘I'm calling about one of your residents, Harry Halmstrom. I'm calling from England because I wonder – I think – though I'm not sure – that there's a possibility he's a relative of mine.'

‘Really?' she says. There is a pause. But she doesn't say anything else.

‘Well, I don't know. We have the same family name – well, my mother's name actually, and, well, I might be coming to Vancouver so I thought perhaps I could find out if we are related.' As I talk, I realize how tenuous all this is – how completely deranged. It occurs to me that I could just hang up.

‘Well, you sure have to come and see him then, don't you?' she says brightly. ‘If he might be your relative!'

‘Yes. Well, that's right.' I'm bolstered by her enthusiasm. ‘That's what I was thinking.'

‘I just love your accent,' she says. ‘What did you say your name was again?'

I'm not sure why, but I give my mother's maiden name. ‘Kali Halmstrom.'

‘Well, Halmstrom's not exactly a common name,' she admits.

‘Do you know if he was from the Seattle area originally, by any chance? Or had family there?'

Her voice lightens. ‘Oh, you know what, honey, Mr Halmstrom lived all over the place; he may have lived in Seattle. Yes. I think so. I do know he was born in Sweden – is your family Swedish? Mr Halmstrom came out west on a boat when he was just a teenager.'

My head buzzes. I remember my mother telling me just once, a very long time ago, that I have Swedish blood and that's why my eyes are blue, though my hair is dark.

‘I think so,' I say. ‘Yes. I do think there is Swedish blood somewhere.'

‘Well, Mr Halmstrom has no family that I know of and he never gets a single visitor, so if you'd like to come visit him, honey, you'd be more than welcome.'

‘Do you think perhaps I could talk to him? On the phone?'

‘Oh well, no,' she says. ‘He really isn't so good on the phone. He's very elderly. He gets awfully confused. And he doesn't hear too good. But you drop by if you're visiting the area. I'd love for him to have a visitor! When are you visiting?'

I swig some more wine. ‘I'm coming this week,' I say. A wave of nausea surges through my belly.

‘Well, how wonderful!' she says. ‘So, what day would you like to come by? I'll put it on the calendar.'

*

I put down the phone. It's like the blood is pumping faster through my brain, bringing blooms of colour instead of this heavy grey. It's mad, but I could do it. I could go. It doesn't matter if he's a relative. I could just go – to Canada. Vancouver is as good as anywhere. And I have to get away. That's clear. I have to go somewhere.

Suddenly, I think about the postcards. Many of them came from a gallery in Canada. I try to remember the name of it – the Susannah something gallery.

I google
Susannah, Art Gallery, Canada
.

The Susannah Gillespie Gallery

I recognize the name instantly. It's in a place called Spring Tide Island, off the coast of British Columbia – reachable, surely, from Vancouver.

I skim the gallery home page. There is some blurb about the artists and various buttons to other pages. I click on
Interviews with Susannah Gillespie
. There is a magazine article from a year ago. I tuck the tartan blanket tighter round my shoulders and, with the wine glass in one hand, I read.

I peer at the grainy picture. A handsome woman sits on a sofa with two golden retrievers at her feet. Her wavy hair is pinned up, her back is straight, gaze direct. There is no ingratiating smile for the photographer. She certainly does not look like a person carrying demons. She looks like a woman who knows how to control the world and everything in it. She looks like someone who is completely in charge.

I go back to the main page and click on ‘artists' – a list of potters, painters and jewellery designers pops up. Then
I click
About Susannah Gillespie
. There she is again, in colour this time. Her hair is greying, and dangling turquoise earrings bring out extraordinarily pale-blue eyes in a sun-lined face. She has high cheekbones, deep eye sockets, a serious mouth, and is looking sideways at the camera. Her body is muscular and she holds herself like a tall person who has worked hard not to stoop. You would not, I think, want to mess with Susannah Gillespie.

I go to Google maps. Spring Tide Island is not far from Vancouver. A drive north and a ferry ride.

The plan seems to be taking shape, as if it has a life of its own. I imagine getting on a plane with Finn. We could go and meet this old Harry Halmstrom, stay a couple of nights in Vancouver. Then we could go and find Susannah, the postcard sender. I could ask her about my mother. I would be away from here: this, Doug, death. I realize that I don't really care whether my plan holds water. I just need to not be here. Canada sounds perfect. I finish the wine.

A buzzy feeling spreads inside me as I compose a brief email to Susannah, introducing myself, telling her I'm going to be in the area, and asking if I could possibly come and visit – this week. Then I dial the gallery number. I suddenly feel nervous and I almost hang up – but I just get her answerphone a deep-voiced Canadian woman instructing me to leave a message. She does sound in control. I give my name, and mobile number. ‘I hoped I might drop by and say hello,' I say. ‘I think you might be a friend of my mother.'

*

She must be. She sent my mother a postcard every year. They must have been good friends once. She will know things about my mother's past. Maybe she knows who taught my mother to spear fish or build a tepee, tie nautical knots, or construct a really good snow shelter. Were these skills handed down from my grandparents? Susannah may know about my family too – what happened to make my mother so bitter about her childhood. It is too late to make things right, but it's not too late to find out more about who my mother was, where she came from – where
I
came from. Where Finn comes from.

Suddenly, nothing seems more important than going to Canada. It feels like survival.

I google the Spring Tide Island ferries. They are few and far between in January, but they leave from a port outside Vancouver.

I search for B & Bs on Spring Tide Island. The first two I click on are shut in wintertime. But there is one, right in the port, and it looks lovely – window boxes, gingham duvets, home-made organic breakfast pancakes, cots available. I dial the number. Nobody answers but I leave a message, with my mobile number, saying that I am just going to fill out the online reservation form, and giving my dates.

*

I formulate rapid plans. I will drive back to Oxford first thing in the morning to get our passports. I'll pack warm things for Finn – presumably it's bitterly cold in Canada in January – and then we'll just leave, on the overnight flight
to Vancouver, before Doug gets home from work. My plan feels both deranged, and perfectly reasonable.

Before I can think too much, I get out my credit card and click on Expedia. When I see the price of the British Airways flight I stop. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I can't possibly do this. The number represents a third of our entire joint savings. I stare the screen. Blood pulses behind my eyes. It is an astronomical amount. But if I don't go – then what? Then there is a gaping hole.

And, as if I am in a dream, and not really participating in this lunacy, I type in my credit card details. I blink several times, and, with a fizzing sensation in my limbs, I click ‘purchase tickets'.

Finn and I are booked on the last BA flight of the day to Vancouver.

A clammy sickness rolls right though my body. What the hell have I done? I stare at the flight details. A prompt asks if I want to print out my boarding pass.

And my phone rings. It's Alice.

‘Were you trying to call me?' Her voice is muffled and anxious. ‘Sorry it's so late – client dinner.' I can hear voices and bustle, faint music, in the background. Hearing Alice, sensible, rational Alice, reinforces the insanity of what I have just done. The ticket is non-refundable.

‘Are you OK, Alice?' My voice seems disembodied, as if it has very little to do with me.

‘I had this dinner, I couldn't get out of it,' she says. She sounds tired. ‘What is it? You sound … Is everything all right? I have to get back in a minute.'

‘No. It's fine. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going away for a bit with Finn. Just to … clear my head. I need a bit of a break.'

‘Oh Kal,' she says. ‘Is this thing with Doug really bad?'

‘It's OK. It's not that. I just need some space, I need to get away so I can think.'

‘You could come and stay with me. I'd have to be at work, but … '

‘No, it's OK, I've booked something already.'

‘What?' The background noise is louder now; she must be walking back into the restaurant.

‘I'm just going away.'

‘Did you say you're going?'

‘Yes!'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Vancouver.'

‘What?' She shouts. ‘I can't hear you at all! This place is—'

‘Never mind,' I bellow. ‘Don't worry. I'll call you tomorrow, OK?

‘They're waving at me. Speak to you tomorrow.'

‘OK,' I say. ‘And take care of yourself, OK? Get some rest.' I hang up, but I know I won't call her tomorrow because if I do she will feel duty-bound to stop me, and I will realize that I can't possibly do this. But it's too late. The tickets are non-refundable. And I can't go home. Not yet.