It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (11 page)

But Joe, he was always on her mind. Who was
he? Where was his family? Someone must be looking for him. She had to find out.

The impact of the landing shook her from
her thoughts.

First, she had to face Althea.

it runs in
the blood

Jem sat at the window in her room at the Georgia
Hotel and stared out into the courtyard below. Couples strolled towards the
outdoor restaurant. The vibe of upbeat music seeped in through the windowpane.
She rested her head against the glass and sighed. She'd rather be lounging on
one of the teak couches next to the fire pit with Finn, sipping a Cosmo.
Instead, she steeled herself for an evening with her no-longer-future
mother-in-law.

Jem unpacked her funeral clothes and hung
them to ease the wrinkles. Anything to avoid ironing. She checked her face in
the mirror by the door, grabbed her purse, headed down to the lobby, and
stepped out into the muggy air. The weather had turned on her. Another typical
Vancouver day, overcast and raining. Bloody perfect.

“Taxi, miss?”

She nodded at the concierge in his crisp
suit and cap. One wave of his hand and a cab pulled up. He opened the door for
her. She pressed a five dollar bill into his hand and he tipped his hat.

On the doorstep of Gerald’s old life she
took two deep breaths and poked the doorbell. Westminster Quarters chimed from
inside the house, a sound that always took her back to her grandfather’s home
when she was a child. She closed her eyes.  The smell of aged newsprint and
dusty books and the chimes of his antique mantle clock filled her head. Oh how
she’d loved to sit in his library and touch every cover, open the pages and
feel the history.

The door hinges squeaked. “Jemima? Why are
you standing there with your eyes shut?”

Althea looked like hell. She’d lost at
least twenty more pounds since their last meeting a year or so ago, the lines
on her face had deepened and multiplied. Her ebony eyes were clouded like a
frosted window into her frosty soul. A wave of sympathy surprised Jem. She searched
her memory for one time, any time that she and Althea had gotten along. To a
time when Althea wasn’t an all out bitch. But nothing came to mind.

“Hello, Althea.” Jem stepped forward and
offered an awkward hug. She was met with a stiff response, a turned head, and
one almost imperceptible pat on the back. As sentimental as always. The fact
that Mother Wolfe never changed gave Jem an odd sense of comfort.

“Well come in already. Give me your
jacket.”

“Jemima, you beautiful girl. How are you
handling all of this?”

Althea’s sister, Marjorie, met her in the
entry with a powerful long hug complete with rocking side to side. Marjorie was
the polar opposite of her sister — and had always gotten along with Jem. She’d
often fantasized that Marjorie was Gerald’s real mother and that one day they’d
let her in on some deep, dark family secret.

“I’m okay. I mean it’s been four years. I
was expecting the worst.” It never failed. One hug from a sympathetic and
caring individual, and an emotional flood ensued. She cried on Marjorie’s
shoulder.

“There, there.” Marjorie’s pudgy hand
patted Jem’s back. “You might think you were prepared, but how can you be,
really?”

Althea’s patented
tsk-tsk
cut her
sorrow off cold. “All right, enough of that. Go sit in the living room, I’ll
bring tea.”

“Do you have wine?” Jem pulled away from
Marjorie’s embrace, smiled at her and winked. “I’d rather have a drink.”

Althea gave her a cold look. “I suppose. If
you must.”

Marjorie put her arm around Jem’s shoulder.
“We must. Red, right hon?”

Jem nodded. “Red.”

They set off to the living room. Althea
shuffled away towards the kitchen. Two glasses of wine later the door chimes
announced the arrival of other mourners. There would be no viewing and for that,
Jem was thankful. Instead Althea insisted people drop by and share their
memories of her beloved son.

Doctor Lewis stepped across the threshold.
Jem hadn’t seen Gerald’s psychiatrist since not long after his disappearance.
What was the point? There was no one to treat. But Althea had been in constant
contact. Jem was baffled by this. The woman refused to believe her son was
mentally ill, but she was relentless in her hounding of this poor man. How on
earth could he help find Gerald?

When the doctor caught sight of Jem, he
nodded and waved, then made his way to her side of the room.

“Jem, dear. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine Sid. Really, I am.”

“I guess four years eases some of the loss,
eh?”

She nodded and sipped her wine. No, it
didn’t ease it. If anything, it made it more profound. Having Finn made it less
difficult. But no one here could know that. Althea would have her head.

Within an hour, the small front room was
crowded with Marjorie’s adult children, their spouses and their many offspring.
The kids, too young to understand what the meeting represented, some of them
born after Gerald’s disappearance and none of them able to remember him at all,
ran around and laughed and screeched. Althea ran around after them, snatching
precious objects from their curious hands, moving crystal tumblers and blown-glass
elephants and a multitude of framed snapshots from arms reach. There were no toys
to keep a child occupied in Althea’s grandchild-barren home. The blame for that
rested its full weight on Jem’s shoulders.

Jem sat in an antique wing chair in the
corner and shifted against the unyielding upholstered seat. She watched the
kids run. Her heart was lightened by their smiling faces, the ease with which
they laughed.

What would her and Finn’s children be like?
Their daughter would be statuesque and lean, but curvy like her mother. Their
son would be tall and strong, handsome as his father. They’d both be brilliant
and beautiful and kind and honest. They would have the best of both parents.

The noise in the room shook her from her
thoughts and her cheeks warmed. Where did that come from? The idea of having
Finn’s babies. Befitting little fantasy to have at Gerald’s mother’s house on
the eve of his funeral.

Hours later, when most of the mourners had
vacated the house, Jem sat on the sofa with Marjorie. Althea and Doctor Lewis
stood near the mantle. With one too many merlots fuelling her confidence, Jem
was in the mood to push her luck.

“Sid, was it you who told me schizophrenia
is genetic? It runs in the blood?”

Althea’s stare bore into her.

Doctor Lewis cleared his throat and
loosened his tie. “Well, yes, yes I guess I did.” Sweat beaded on his brow. He
stole a glance at Althea and then took a gulp of gin and tonic. “Several genes
are implicated in schizophrenia. There are new studies that show that it’s not
entirely genetic though.”

Althea crossed her arms and smirked. “There
you go Jemima. I told you he didn’t get it from my family.”

Did she just admit he had it at all?

“Although.” Sid turned to Althea. “People
with first-degree relatives who carry the gene or have the disease are much
more susceptible.”

“What does that mean, ‘first-degree?’”
Althea paced.

“It means it’s more likely that a
schizophrenic has one or more schizophrenic parents than has an aunt or a
cousin who is schizophrenic. And the incidence of the disease in people with no
genetic history is quite small. So if we were betting folk, we could place
money that someone else in Gerald’s close family has the disease.”

Jem nodded. “Or carries the gene.”

“Yes. Or that.”

“Bullshit.”

“Althea!” Marjorie gaped at her sister.

“Gerald wasn’t ill. Was not schizophrenic.
I’ll believe that until the day I die.”

“Mrs. Wolfe, please.” Doctor Lewis pulled a
handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his brow. “We’ve been over this a
hundred times. The diagnosis was sound. Gerald improved with medication. If
he’d stayed on it, things might have turned out differently. He could have
coped, could have managed. Could have even continued his research.”

Althea dropped into the brocade wing chair,
her shoulders slumped. “Bullshit,” she said under her breath.

“Maybe it runs in his father’s family?” Jem
looked at Althea. “Did your husband show any signs?”

Althea stood and glared at her. “Damn you,
Jemima, why must you push this? What does it matter now? Gerald’s father is
dead. Gerald is dead. You never got around to giving me grandchildren. Even if
any of it was true, and it’s not, there’s no one left to pass it down to. No
one left to lose their goddamn mind.” She went to the front door and opened it.
“Time for you to go. I need to sleep if I’m to survive tomorrow.” She headed
for the stairs. “Show yourselves out.”

The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed
in the silent room. Jem ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. What the
hell was wrong with her? Maybe Althea was right, maybe it didn’t matter. She
had to get over this incessant need to push Althea’s buttons and make her face
the truth. Althea’s own truth wasn’t many years away. More like months.

“Well, I should be going.” Doctor Lewis
pulled his tie off, shoved it in his pocket and turned to Jem. “I’ll see you
tomorrow. Maybe we shouldn’t speak of Gerald’s disease any longer. It’d be for
the best.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry Sid. I don’t
know what came over me.”

“Sure you do.” Marjorie poured Jem another
glass of wine. “My sister’s had a hate-on for you since the first time Gerald
brought you home. I never understood why, I think you’re a treat. But you two
were made to pour salt in each other’s wounds.” She patted Jem on the shoulder.
“Don’t you worry about it. You had a right to know. Especially before he died.”
She sighed. “But she’s right, you know. It doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me.” Jem wiped tears from
her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Maybe if I knew, I could find an answer
to all the whys. Why did he go off his meds? Why did he leave?” She hung her
head. “Why did he prefer crazy with strangers to some semblance of normal life
with me?” She looked at Marjorie. “If he didn’t want me, he could have said so.
So it does matter to me. If I could even begin to understand why, then I might
be able to close the Gerald door. Move on. Start over. There’s a new door
waiting to be opened.”

Doctor Lewis shifted his weight from foot
to foot. “Maybe we can talk when we get back to Calgary. I’ll give you a call
and come by the house. With Gerald gone, I think the doctor-patient privilege
rules don’t need to be so strictly enforced.”

Jem’s heart sped up. Sid knew why Gerald
was ill. All this time?

Marjorie walked the doctor to the door and
closed it behind him. She turned to Jem. “Now. I want to hear all about the man
behind door number two.”

“Oh Marj. I need a cigarette.”

“Oooh, me too. Let’s go sit on the porch.”

one of
the unfaithful

The ringing phone jarred Jem awake. She sat
up too fast. Pain stabbed her temples. She snatched the receiver.

“This is your nine-thirty wake-up call.”

Nothing like a robotic pre-recorded message
to shock you into a nasty wine hangover. She should have passed on those last
couple of glasses but Marjorie was hard to say no to.

When the cab dropped her off at the hotel
the night before, she found herself wide awake. She called Finn and, for the
first time in her life, had phone sex. They went from filling each other in on
their days to her railing on about Althea to detailed descriptions of what they
were doing to themselves while masturbating a thousand kilometers apart. When
she hung up the phone she felt satisfied, uncomfortable, and just plain silly.
But Finn didn’t mind it one bit. Even at a distance, in the middle of the
night, awakened from a dead sleep by her phone call, he wanted her. She’d
fallen asleep at four o’clock hugging the extra pillow and dreaming of him.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed
and ran her hands through her hair. She poked at the phone and made a quick
call to room service before she jumped into a steaming shower.

Minutes later, enveloped in a thick hotel
robe with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she answered a quiet knock at
her door. A young fellow in a maroon waistcoat and starched white shirt whirled
into the room, a tray balanced on one hand. She salivated at the smell that wafted
from the hole in the chrome plate cover.

She signed the chit, tipped him twenty-five
percent, and showed him out. The best hangover cure ever — greasy food and
strong coffee. She sat at the table by the window and gobbled two eggs over
medium, maple sausage, and buttery toast while she scanned the view. With only
one crust of bread remaining on her plate, she guzzled her coffee and glanced
at her watch. "Shit." Time to face the funeral music. And Althea.

She did her hair up, clipping and spraying
it into place. She put on makeup, something rare for her, saved for special
events and court appearances. A little lip gloss to bring out her natural pout,
a touch of eye shadow and mascara. Despite a full night of hanging in the
closet, her suit was still wrinkled — the black jacket, grey pencil skirt, even
the lavender silk blouse.