Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

I remembered the baptisms of my children and grandchildren. And the old question: Do you renounce the evil powers of this world, which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?

“Yes,” I said, “I understand what you’re saying.”

Zack threw himself into Theo Brokaw’s case with the fervour of a first-year law student. The legal arguments were complex and engrossing, but it was the medical aspect of Theo’s case that intrigued Zack. He had never had reason to delve into the science of traumatic brain injury, and he was greedy for knowledge. His desk was heaped with printouts of articles that dealt with the symptoms and consequences of injury to the frontal lobe of the brain, and every morning someone from Falconer Shreve would arrive with new information. Zack devoured it all.

I had my own preoccupation. For over a year, I’d been weighing the possibility of taking early retirement from the university. I liked my work, but I was no longer passionate about it, and there were many other things I wanted to do. The idea of helping Mieka and Lisa Wallace bring their project for inner-city kids to fruition appealed to me, and it appealed to Zack, who had been an inner-city kid himself. When I expressed interest, Mieka was quick to take me on a tour of Markestyn’s, the empty school-supply shop on 4th Avenue. To my untutored eye, it was the perfect site for UpSlideDownToo. Centrally located in a residential neighbourhood whose best days were long past, two blocks from a community school, the new UpslideDown could become a magnet for young children and those who cared for them.

On our next visit to the building, Mieka and I had company. Zack and his partner Blake Falconer, whose specialty was real estate, came along. They were both impressed. Blake said he’d get a structural engineer to check out the building, but it was a nice piece of real estate. “A good investment for your old age,” he said.

When he heard Blake’s words, a shadow crossed Zack’s face.

I met his eyes. “Zack and I pretty much focus on the here and now,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Blake said, and that was the end of the discussion. But for me, that shadow was the tipping point. The deadline for requesting early retirement was December 31. Our wedding anniversary was January 1. I went home and wrote my letter.

I wasn’t the only one with plans to change her work life. Delia was honouring her promise to practise law part-time. The adjustment wasn’t easy for her, but she had committed herself to caring for Jacob, and she was doing a fine job.

Noah finished the woodcarving of the small bear that represented Jacob, and on the longest night of the year, the Wainbergs had an informal ceremony on their lawn to put the new carving in place. Nadine stayed in town for the event, and at her suggestion, Noah ordered wood for a final bear – a female who would represent Abby.

Kym continued to come over for a couple of hours every day until the morning of Christmas Eve. He and Zack had hit it off, and so when Kym left me his contact information, I filed it carefully, even though I hoped it would be years – or at least months – until I had to use it.

Christmas was the usual blur, but there were some fine moments. Zack managed to score two extra tickets to the Pats’ game, so he and I had our first of what we assumed would be many double dates with Declan and Taylor. Angus and Leah, both beaming, and with their cheeks burnished from hours on the ski slopes, arrived back from Whistler on Christmas Eve. I didn’t need to hear the announcement to know that they were once again a couple. I had always believed that Leah Drache was the right woman for Angus and knowing that she was in our lives again was the first gift of our holiday.

There were other memorable gifts. Taylor finished her self-portrait in time to give it to Zack on Christmas morning. Zack was not an easy man to thrill with a gift, but he was so touched by the painting that he called a halt to the present opening until he could see how the self-portrait looked in our family room. My gift from Taylor was a pair of fuzzy socks and two rectangular canvases. On one canvas, she had copied out Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Sock” in English; on the other, she had written out the poem in Spanish. The margins of both canvases were decorated with fanciful drawings of socks.

When I’d given her Neruda’s Odes to Common Things for her birthday, she’d been polite, but she hadn’t been exactly bowled over. “I didn’t know you even opened that book,” I said.

“That day Isobel came over, she read some of the poems out loud while I painted,” Taylor said. “You and I had had that talk about the kind of life experiences I needed to make art, so when Isobel was reading, I really listened. Then I read the poems myself, and I started to think about what Pablo Neruda was saying. You’ve read the poems, haven’t you?”

“Many times,” I said.

“Then you know what they’re about,” Taylor said. “They’re about how amazing ordinary things are: tables, chairs, yellow flowers, oranges, French fries… ”

“Cats,” I said.

Taylor grinned. “And dogs. And socks.” She frowned. “Is that what you were trying to tell me by giving me the book?”

“No,” I said. “I just wanted my socks back.”

We drove up to the lake on Boxing Day. I hadn’t yet seen the skating rink that was my Christmas gift from Zack, but the minute our children and grandchildren spied the smooth expanse of ice, we knew it was a hit. The kids skated, with occasional ski and toboggan breaks, all day, and after dinner, they turned on the fairy lights strung across the branches of the trees circling the rink, and went back at it.

Zack and I stayed indoors watching, our hands touching. We were at peace and grateful for it. When Lena and Maddy spotted us watching them from the window and turned to wave, Zack and I exchanged glances. “Who has more fun than us?” he said.

“Nobody,” I said. “Nobody has more fun than us.” The shadow I’d seen on Zack’s face the day Blake Falconer talked about our old age appeared again. This time I was ready for it. I stood. “Do you remember promising that when you were better, we’d have a Kevin Costner kiss – one of those long, slow, deep, soft kisses that last three days?” I said.

Zack nodded. “I remember,” he said.

“It happens that I’m free for the next three days,” I said.

Zack pointed his chair towards the hall that led to our bedroom. “That’s lucky,” he said. “Because so am I.”

As long, slow, deep, soft kisses frequently do, Zack’s and mine developed into something more stirring than a kiss. It had been a while since we made love, and for both of us the joining of our bodies was a homecoming. Finally, sated and grateful, we lay hand in hand, listening to the kids playing on the ice, convinced that we might be immortal after all.

Thanks to Janette Seibel for suggesting the possibilities of the articling year; to Rick Mitchell, retired Staff Sergeant in charge of Major Crimes Section, Regina Police Service; to my editor, Dinah Forbes, for her intelligent and sensitive editing and her friendship; to Lynn Schellenberg, for bringing a fresh and perceptive eye to the manuscript; to Ashley Dunn, who is as determined as she is lovely, and – as always – to Ted, who makes everything possible.