Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

“We’re fine,” I said.

“We won’t stay long here,” Nadine said. Her hair was centre-parted in a good mid-length cut. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any. She led us into the room on the left. “Don’t worry about your boots,” she said. “These rugs have endured a great deal over the years.” She shrugged. “As you can see, this house has been well lived in.”

The wood in the living room gleamed and the plants in the windows were thriving, but the fabric on the furniture was worn and faded. There were books everywhere. Over the fireplace was a family portrait. Delia was drawn to it immediately. Hugh Michaels was a bald, rumpled-looking man with grey eyes, heavy brows, and the quarter-smile of the ironist; his wife, tanned and blonde, had the sleepily content smile of a woman who revelled in the sensual. The eyes of both parents were on Abby, who stood in front of them, pale, intense, and impatient.

“I could look at that painting forever,” Nadine said softly. “It is so like them. Abby was fourteen. The artist wanted her to put on a dress, but she refused. Peggy insisted on wearing her garden hat and having a cigarette in her hand because she was never without a cigarette. And Hugh, of course, wore his invariable four-in-hand tie and three-piece suit.”

“Abby looks just like Isobel,” Zack said. “Same hair. Same eyes. Same focus.”

I turned to Nadine. “Isobel is Delia’s daughter. She’s the same age as Abby was in that painting.”

Nadine’s voice was dreamy. “Abby had a very happy life with them,” she said. “I thought you’d like to see that.”

Delia’s lips tightened. “I’ve seen enough,” she said.

Nadine raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to look at the rest of the house? Abby’s old room is filled with things that were important to her – things that I know she wanted Jacob to cherish some day.”

Delia’s headshake was violent. “No.”

Zack turned his chair to face Nadine. His voice was gentle. “Was there anything special you wanted to show us?”

Nadine nodded. “There’s a spot by the river that Abby loved. We talked about taking Jacob there next summer and letting him paddle in the water. Abby and I spent hours there, swimming and doing homework and reading and dreaming.” She smiled at the memory. “It’s a magical place for a child.”

Delia turned away sharply. “I forgot something in the car,” she said, and she walked out. When we heard the door slam, Zack pointed his chair towards the hall. “I’ll talk to her,” he said.

I waited as Nadine put on her jacket and boots. “Delia’s not easy with emotions,” I said.

Nadine’s voice was jagged. “Is she capable of love?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Nadine knotted her scarf. “I never knew with Abby either,” she said bleakly. “But I loved enough for both of us.” She pulled her knitted cap down over her ears and headed for the door.

When Nadine and I left the house, Zack and Delia were waiting by the car we’d rented from the agency in Port Hope. As soon as we joined them, Delia reached inside her purse and took out a ring. “You should have this,” she said, handing the ring to Nadine. “It was in Abby’s hotel room. The police agreed that there was no need to hold onto it.”

Nadine’s eyes were wide. “She wasn’t wearing it when… ”

“No,” Delia said. “She wasn’t.”

Nadine removed her mitten and slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. The twin of the ring, a white-gold Celtic band, was already there. “Thank you,” she said and then she turned towards the woods.

Despite her own pain, Nadine was solicitous of Zack. She dropped back to talk to him. “There’s a path that’s wide enough for your chair, but I can’t guarantee its condition.”

“I’ll make it,” Zack said, and then he coughed. “Allergic to country air,” he muttered.

Nadine set off along the path and led us into the woods. The terrain was rough, but she moved confidently, with the muscular grace and power of a woman at home in her own body. “This is virgin land,” she said. “The trees you’re looking at have been here forever. In the spring the ferns grow so quickly it seems like a trick. On the hottest day, it’s cool here because the trees block the sun.”

The land sloped towards the river. It hadn’t been cold enough for the forest floor to freeze and the ground under my feet was spongy. It was also strewn with fallen branches and exposed roots. Zack hated me to push his chair but there were places where we had no alternative. Finally, we arrived at the water. Downriver, partially hidden by trees, was a cabin. Nadine gestured towards it. “That’s where we spent most of our time. It’s simple, but we were happy there.”

She moved towards the river, gathered some fallen cedar branches, and dropped to her knees. She turned to face us. “Would you like to join me? We don’t have to say anything – just watch the water and think of her for a few minutes.”

Delia and I joined Nadine, and Zack pushed his chair closer. Nadine rocked back on her heels. “So many people read poems at the memorial service. My mind was a blur, but I remember hearing a poem by Raymond Carver about feeling beloved on this earth.” Nadine’s eyes sought Delia’s. “There wasn’t a moment of Abby’s life when she didn’t feel beloved on this earth. It helps me to know that.” She prayed silently for a minute, then made the sign of the cross and looked at Delia. “Would you like to say something?”

Delia’s face was a mask. “What can I say? I never knew her.”

Nadine stood and wiped her hands on her jeans. “In that case, would you like to join me at the cabin for a drink?”

Delia didn’t answer. Zack eyed his partner anxiously, then turned to me. “You and Nadine go ahead. We’ll be along.”

I caught his eye. “That wind is raw.”

“I’ll be all right,” he said.

The cabin was square and solidly built with large windows, and a glassed-in porch overlooking the river. The front door was unlocked and when Nadine opened it we were met with a wave of warmth from a Franklin stove in the corner. Nadine took my coat. “Do you like Scotch?” she asked.

I nodded. As a host, she was charmingly awkward – shakily splashing the Scotch into the glasses, discovering one glass had too much and the other too little and attempting to even out the levels by pouring from one glass to the other. Finally, she handed me the glass with the most and smiled ruefully. “Abby always took care of the drinks,” she said. She motioned me to a chair by the stove, pulled her own chair close, and raised her glass. “To absent friends,” she said.

“To absent friends,” I repeated. I gazed around the room. The walls were bright with quilts, and abstracts. Two desks were placed side by side in front of a large window with a dramatic view of the river. A closed laptop and a bud vase with a single white rose were on one desk; on the other was a stack of essays.

“The marking never ends, does it?” I said.

Nadine glanced at me with interest. “You’re a teacher?”

“I teach political science at the university.”

Nadine’s face brightened. “Political science was Abby’s field. She just finished her Ph.D. dissertation last year.”

“I happened upon Abby’s name in a student’s bibliography, so I Googled her dissertation,” I said. “The abstract was excellent.”

“Everything Abby did was ‘excellent’,” Nadine said. “She was exceptional in every way. She was also very easy to love.”

“I gathered that from your reference to the poem by Raymond Carver,” I said. “When I get home I’ll look it up. That line about feeling beloved on this earth is beautiful.”