The Saffron Gate (12 page)

^{And now the thought came to me that I lived much of my life through the pages of books as well. That perhaps I, too, was only a paper figure. A cut-out, a silhouette. Flat.}

^{I always thought I knew the shape of my life. Of course I thought I knew
about
life, thought I knew all I needed — or wanted — to know. And yet, like the opening left when a burning star falls from its perch, now an unexpected hole was left in what was once a solid curtain of understanding.}

^{What had I planned for myself once I was alone? Even though my father's death had come too early, it was, after all, inevitable. What future had I seen for myself after he was gone and no longer needed me to care for him?}

^{Had I thought that my quiet, safe life was like a thread, running through me and attaching me to the earth? That I would continue on with my routines — caring for the house and garden and painting botanical images, reading on the dark winter nights when the nor'easters blew in, wandering through the countryside in the summer — as surely and predictably as the sun rose and set each day? That this thread would remain sturdy, and invincible?}

^{Now I knew the thread had been abruptly broken, and a huge, dark longing came over me. Sitting under the cold stars, I understood that it was death that made me recognise life, and the existence, or perhaps the non-existence, of my own being. I suddenly realised what my father had tried to tell me, years earlier, about going out into the world. I saw that my own life was so small — no, tiny; as minute as one of the billions of stars that created the hazy band of the Milky Way. Or perhaps it was presumptuous to even view my life as the most minuscule of stars; maybe it was more appropriate to think of it as one of the specks of dust that also littered that celestial sphere.}

^{I thought again of my father's wishes for me, that I'd marry and have my own family.}

^{Although he had long ago given up on the notion of me having a job, he'd started a tiresome rant not too long after my mother had died, telling me that there was a connection between man and woman that couldn't be duplicated in friendship or in familial ties. That only when that connection was broken by death did you understand its strength. 'I want you to know it, Sidonie,' he'd said, too many times for me to remember. And each time I felt a combination of anger and embarrassment; anger towards him for badgering me, and embarrassment within myself for not being able to tell him that he was blind to the fact that no man would ever want to marry me.}

^{As I sat on the steps, remembering his words, the lights in the Barlows' house went out, and suddenly I remembered Mr Barlow saying not to worry about the rent as we left the lawyer's office. I went inside and took the letter I'd brought home that day out of the drawer in the sideboard. I stared at the amount of the inheritance, understanding, only then, how small it was. I thought about what I paid for weekly groceries. The coal for the furnace over the winter. My painting supplies. There was money for little else. And even with Mr and Mrs Barlow's generosity of living in the house without paying rent, what would I do in a few years, when there was nothing left?}

^{And then I realised that although yes, my father had wanted me to find happiness, he'd also worried about what I would do when he was gone. How I would live. He had wanted to know I would be looked after, as it appeared I hadn't done anything to learn to look after myself.}

^{A quiet panic filled me. I climbed into bed, still in my coat, cradling Cinnabar. But even when she grew restless and too hot under the coverlet, struggling to free herself, I clung to her as though she was a lifeline to shore, and I was adrift in a small boat.}

^{It was four days later that Mr Barlow came to the door to take me back to the hospital.}

^{He was still standing there, his cap in his hands. 'Sidonie?' he said, and I jumped, lost in thought.}

^{'Oh. Yes, sorry. When am I supposed to go to the hospital?'}

^{He shrugged. 'Nora didn't say. Just that you missed your appointment and you should go. I can take you today.'}

^{I set down Cinnabar — she was thirteen years old and heavy now — and pulled my coat from its hook behind the door. As we walked out into the spring sunshine, I put my hands in my pockets, and felt something in the left one. It was a small vial and a folded paper. I had worn my coat since the accident — to the funeral, to church, to the lawyer's office, when I sat on the porch, and when I walked to the store — but hadn't discovered these things before. Had I fingered them without even the curiosity to pull them out and look at them, or had I not put my hands into my pockets?}

^{The vial was the ointment the doctor had given me the day my father died, and the paper gave instructions to use it three times a day. It could be renewed if more was needed. There was also a date for me to return to see the doctor. It was for two weeks earlier. On the top of the paper was a small letterhead:
Dr E. Duverger, MD.}

^{We drove in silence, and when I got out, Mr Barlow touched my arm.}

^{'I'll wait for you,' he said.}

^{I nodded, and went up the steps of the hospital. But at the door I stopped, thinking of the night my father died, and the next morning, coming out into the weak early light to Mr Barlow's truck. A wave of nausea ran through me. I couldn't go through those doors again; I turned away and started down the steps. But Mr Barlow was already parking the truck. I could see the back of his head through the window.}

^{I couldn't let him see me so weak, couldn't go back to him and ask that he take me home, admit to him that I was afraid to go into the hospital.}

^{I took a deep breath and turned, going through the door. My stomach churned, and I looked for a Ladies', but didn't see one. I gave my name at the front desk and was shown into a small room, and after a short wait the doctor came in. Dr Duverger. I remembered his ruddy cheeks. His hair was very dark, as were his eyes. Like mine.}

^{'Good day, Miss O'Shea,' he said, smiling, a very slight smile, and studying me. In the next instant the smile fled, and a line appeared between his brows. 'I phone to your friend - the number you give me for your ride home - because I look at my active patient records, and see that you have not return to have the stitches remove,' he said.}

^{He was standing over me, and I was looking up at him. I was still trying to quell the rolling pain in my abdomen. 'You should have come back when it was the time. Miss O'Shea — did you not see what was happen?'}

^{'Happen?' I echoed, rather faintly. 'What do you mean?'}

^{'The flesh grow over the stitches, and the wound, it turns . . .' He said something in French just under his breath, his voice too low for me to hear the words. Then he said, in English, 'Keloid. It become keloidal.'}

^{I lifted my shoulders a fraction. 'What's that?'}

^{'The tissue — it grows too fast. Look,' he said, pulling a round mirror from his desk. He held it so I could see my own face, and his fingers running up and down the red scar. 'This mound is the formation of fibrous scar tissue. Your own tissue was too overactive, growing so quick. Too fast. We could have stop it. Did you not feel the itch, the pull?'}

^{I shook my head. 'It doesn't matter.'}

^{He stared at me, and something in his expression suddenly shamed me. I put my hand over my cheek. It was hot. 'My father . . . the funeral and . . . and everything. I . . . I forgot. Or . . . I don't know,' I finally said, not wanting to admit my altered state these last weeks since my father's death.}

^{The doctor's face softened, and he sat down in a chair across from me. 'I understand. It is the difficult time. I have lose my own parents,' he said, and with those words, from this man I didn't know, my eyes burned. I hadn't been able to cry at the funeral, or afterwards, when neighbours from the street and my father's old friends had come to the house, the women hugging me and the men pressing my hand or patting my shoulder.}

^{I had stayed strong for the last three weeks. I had stayed strong as I washed the Model T and polished the hood ornaments, as I ironed my father's shirts and wetted his shaving cream with the brush and breathed in the lather, as I put his pipe between my lips and tasted the faint bitterness of tobacco, as I lay on his bed and saw one silver hair on his pillow. I had stayed strong, telling myself I had no right to cry for my own pig-headedness, for my own fatal error in judgement.}

^{So what power did this man have, to make me feel, so unexpectedly, that I wanted to lean my head against his chest and weep? That I wanted him to put his arms around me? I swallowed and blinked, and was relieved that my eyes remained dry.}

^{'You are all right, Miss O'Shea?' he asked. 'I see . . . I should tell you to come another time, perhaps. But already it is too long for your face. Let me look again.' I lifted my chin, and again he leaned closer to me, his fingers gently exploring my cheek. I smelled disinfectant and perhaps, underneath, the tiniest whiff of tobacco. Again I thought of my father. The doctor's fingers were firm, and yet gentle.}

^{'You're French,' I added, and then immediately felt foolish. I had no idea why I made that obvious proclamation.}

^{But he just sat back in the chair, putting on a pair of spectacles and looking at my file.
'Oui,'
he said, reading.}

^{'My mother was French. Not from France. From Canada.'}

^{'Je sais
,' he murmured, still reading.}

^{'You know?' I asked, surprised.}

^{He put the folder on the desk and took off his spectacles. This time he smiled again, that small, slightly unsure smile. 'Not about your mother. But I hear you pray in the French of this country. And singing. I hear the French song.'}

^{'Singing?' I asked, surprised a second time.}

^{'Dodo, l'enfant,
do. The night . . . when your father died. When I pass the door I hear you sing this . . . what do you call the night song for children?'}

^{'Lullaby,' I said.}

^{'Yes. My mother also sing this lullaby to me. Very traditional,' he said, his smile unselfconscious, warm and sincere. In the next instant it faded. 'Miss O'Shea. You wish your face to be better?' He picked up the small hand mirror and extended it to me for the second time.}

^{I took it, and looked at myself. The scar was angry and red, raised and lumpy, and ran vertically from my cheekbone all the way to my jaw. I was startled at its ugliness. How had I not seen it like this before? Surely I had looked at myself in the mirror, when I carefully washed my face, avoiding the painful wound, or when I brushed my hair and twisted it up into its usual knot at the back of my head.}

^{Again Dr Duverger touched the scar lightly, with the tip of his index finger, but I could feel nothing. 'If I do the very small surgery, I can correct it. There will be new stitching, but it will leave a less noticeable scar. Finer, and more flat. Do you wish to have this done?'}

^{When I didn't immediately speak, Dr Duverger said, 'Miss O'Shea?' and I looked from my own reflection to him.}

^{'It is not an expensive procedure.'}

^{I put down the mirror.}

^{'If this is the reason for your hesitation.'}

^{I stared at him. 'No.'}

^{It was obvious that my reaction puzzled him. I looked down at my handbag, still in my lap, and fiddled with the straps;}