Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

“You must not blame yourself,” says Lenka.

“Do I blame myself?” The idea comes as a surprise. “I don’t think I do. Actually, Gran says there was a happy ending, because he changed after that. She says in the hospital he burst into tears when he realized how glad I was to see him. That’s a happy ending, isn’t it?” She leans forward in the rocking chair with her fingers clutching the arms, then lets herself rock back. “I’m sorry for going on. I don’t know why I told you all that.”

“Because you do not wish to repeat father’s mistakes,” says Lenka. “You want to make your own way in the world.”

“She makes her way already,” Josef says, sounding annoyed. Turning to Maggie, he says, “Do not run to throw away everything you do since you come here.”

“You must not listen to Josef,” says Lenka. “My brother wants you to be like him, unhappy in this place forever.”

They seem on the brink of falling back into the argument they were having when Maggie arrived. She doesn’t have the energy to referee. But before she can make an excuse to leave, Josef’s expression grows pacific.

“Come, we talk no more of this now. Let us pray to God for guidance.” He closes his eyes and bows his head. After a moment, Lenka joins him. Maggie waits for them to finish before she bids them good night.

The next day, she works in the front yard by the mailbox, pruning the lilac bush more than it needs, trying to avoid the house and Brid’s unbearable kindness. Maggie expected Brid to punish her somehow for giving up the farm, but it’s been the opposite. Brid has taken up the cooking and the laundry, she has sat for long stretches listening to Maggie talk of Laos, and she hasn’t expressed any interest in travelling with her or hunting down Wale. It’s as though she’s doing everything she can to prove that she’ll be all right in Boston by herself and Maggie shouldn’t feel bad about leaving her. The result is that Maggie spends more time worrying over Brid’s future than her own.

Her thoughts are broken by the sound of steps approaching along the gravel road. She looks up and sees it’s Lydia Dodd.

The girl doesn’t seem unfriendly. Instead, she looks woebegone, and despite her bulky jacket she hugs herself as if for warmth, seeming even thinner than she was three months ago.

“I saw your sign,” she says, gesturing to the placard by the road that reads FOR SALE . “Thought I’d say hello before you take off.”

“Your father said you were living in Toronto,” says Maggie warily.

“I was, but not now.” The girl peers across the lawn toward the porch. “I missed your open house. Would you let me take a look around?”

“You mean inside?” Maggie asks, and Lydia nods. “Why?”

“Because my parents and I used to live here.”

“Oh,” says Maggie. How could no one have mentioned this until now?

“We moved out when I was a little kid,” explains Lydia, as though sensing Maggie’s disbelief. “If you don’t want me in there—”

“No, no. It’s just a surprise.” Maggie sets down her shears and waves for the girl to come along. As they cross the yard, it seems surreal for the two of them to be walking side by side.

In the house, Lydia doesn’t say a word. Passing through the hallway, then the kitchen, she gazes at the walls, the floors, the furniture as sedulously as a patron at an exhibition. Maggie tries not to feel embarrassed when the girl takes a moment to study the broken cupboard door Maggie hasn’t gotten around to fixing. She’s tempted to ask if it was Lydia’s family who bequeathed to her the layers of grease in the oven, the bottle cap glued over a hole in the counter. But they couldn’t have; they moved out years ago.

In the living room, the girl runs her fingers along the old side table Fletcher brought up from the cellar in July. Then for a long time she takes in a series of horizontal notches on the door frame, the highest of them just above her waist.

“Anything look the same?” asks Maggie.

“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“You moved next door from here?” It seems a strange thing to have done.

“My father did. Mom and I went to Toronto.” From the silence that follows, Maggie guesses there are things the girl remembers well enough.

Upstairs, as they near Brid’s bedroom, Maggie puts a finger to her lips and motions Lydia past. “My housemate’s sleeping,” she whispers. It may not be true, but she doesn’t want to spring the girl on Brid, or Brid on her. They carry on to Maggie’s room.

Lydia doesn’t enter, only remains at the doorway and looks in. The bed has been made, thank goodness. The rolltop desk in the corner is covered in files, and the bulletin board above it has been pinned with sheets of notepaper. Atop the bureau sits a line of books, some puffed out with yellowed pages from being dropped in the bath. The box Maggie brought back from Syracuse with her father’s things in it is tucked in a corner, still sealed with packing tape. She doesn’t suppose she’ll ever open it in this place.

Lydia stares at the room a little longer before turning away. “I remember them yelling a lot. They couldn’t make money out of cherries, but it was his family’s farm and he didn’t want to leave.” Speaking more to herself than to Maggie, she adds, “He wouldn’t have if I’d been a boy.”

“What about the wrecking yard?” Maggie asks.

Lydia snorts derisively and starts down the hallway. “That was his get-rich scheme once he’d sold the rest of the land.”

She takes in the empty bedroom at the back of the house, then steps into the playroom and glances at the projector. Maggie half expects some crack about the party, but when Lydia speaks, she isn’t sarcastic. She’s distraught.

“Dimitri’s not here, is he?”

Maggie shakes her head, and the girl bursts into tears. Suddenly Maggie feels certain that the tour of the house was a way for Lydia to find this out. She wanted to see for herself.

“But his wife’s here,” she says through her sobs. “I’ve seen her.”

“You didn’t,” says Maggie softly. “They left months ago. They haven’t been back.”

“I did see her,” Lydia insists, and Maggie tries to think what happened.

“Was she blond?” she asks. The girl nods, sniffling. “That isn’t her, Lydia. That’s my housemate. I swear to you she isn’t Dimitri’s wife.”

“But he told me she was. At the party he pointed her out to me.” Lydia’s face turns vicious. “He’s a goddamn liar!”

A moment later, she hastens from the room. Maggie waits a minute before following, then finds her on the porch stairs, still weeping. As she sits down beside her, Lydia’s hand reaches out, palm up. Sitting in it is a rusty key.

“From under the mat,” Lydia says. Maggie takes it from her slowly. “Jacqui and I used to hang out here before you moved in. We didn’t know you were coming.”

Maggie thinks of the peace sign on the wall, the cigarette butts and empty bottles. She remembers her first night in the house and the shadowy figure at the bottom of the stairs.

“The night Fletcher and I got here …”

“That was Jacqui. She’d left her stash in the living room.”

“She got it back?”

“Not that time. Dimitri grabbed it for us later.” After she has spoken, Lydia bends forward and starts to breathe quickly and shallowly.

“Are you all right?” asks Maggie. “You need help?”

Lydia sits up and puts her hands on her knees to brace herself, eyes closed tightly, leaking tears. “I’m sorry about the wall. I’m very sorry. It was Dimitri’s idea, in the summer. He wanted me to write those things.”

Maggie feels her jaw clenching. “Lydia,” she says.