In Winter's Grip. Brenda Chapman
whether to ignore its unwelcome persistence. The work ethic had won out. I’d straightened as I picked up the receiver and lowered myself onto my chair beside the desk. “Yes? Dr. Cleary here.”
“Maja? Maj, it’s Jonas.” My brother’s voice, questioning and hesitant. I pictured him cupping the mouthpiece with his fingers, pacing the kitchen with his free hand wrapped in the coiled cord, twisting it into a tangle. His blue eyes would be focused on some distant point, and his blonde curls would be uncombed and lying every which way. It would have taken a lot for him to have made this call. My brother was riddled with self-doubt that kept him from spontaneous gestures.
“Of course it is,” I’d teased. “But you’ve never called me here before.” The implication hit me. I asked more sharply, “Is anything wrong? Are Gunnar and Claire okay?”
“It’s Dad.”
I closed my eyes. I’d known this call would come one day. I was not surprised at how empty Jonas’s words left me. I asked automatically, “Is he ill?”
“Yes...well, sort of. He fell off the ladder cleaning ice from the roof. Luckily, he was on his way down when he fell. Doctor Galloway thinks he may have had a heart attack.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, not the best. He’s in the hospital but not because he wants to be. Galloway is keeping him there to run some tests.”
Was I prepared for my father’s death? Even if I never spoke to him again, it would be painful not to have the option. I didn’t say anything, trying to settle all the feelings that rose to the surface with unexpected force.
“You still there, Maja?”
“Yes.” A catch in my throat made the word come out raspy.
“Will you come? It’s likely nothing serious—like, I doubt he’s kicking off any time soon, but you never know.” Jonas’s voice trailed off.
“I’m not sure that I can. It means rearranging a lot of patients and,” I took a breath, “it would just be hard.”
“I know, but I thought you might want to come...after all this time. It would be good to see you, anyhow.”
“I’ll think about it, Jonas.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you and Claire and Gunnar?” I asked, anxious not to lose this tenuous line to my brother.
“Claire’s teaching first grade this year. Gunnar’s in sixth grade.”
“That’s right. Gunnar’s twelve now, isn’t he? Seems like he was just born.” I was filling in space, all the time knowing I’d let these relationships slide. I should have known more about my brother’s life than I did.
“And you and Sam?”
“We’re fine. Fine. Sam is thinking of retiring next year.”
“Talk about time flying,” Jonas said. “It’s hard to think of him giving up his work.”
I picked up the stapler from my desk and squeezed until it hurt my hand. “I’ll try to come, Jonas. That’s all I can promise.”
“Might be good for you to see him. Dad’s got more interest in family these days. Hardly the father you remember.” Jonas laughed harshly. I was startled by the bitterness.
“I can’t imagine,” I said, and I really couldn’t. Memories of my father did not include meaningful family time. A flash of repressed childhood anger shot through me with unnerving strength. “I’m surprised he didn’t get you to clean the ice off his roof. Seems to me, Dad never liked to get his hands dirty.”
“I’d offered to do it on Saturday, but he said it couldn’t wait until the weekend.”
“When I want something done, I want it done as soon as I ask,” I growled, a weak imitation of my father’s deep voice.
“It does no good, Maja. Don’t even go there.”
Suddenly, I was a child again with my brother trying to keep me from fighting our battles. Battles with my father that we’d never been able to win. I wouldn’t let myself upset Jonas now. Besides, I’d given up the fighting spirit long ago. “How about I call you back tomorrow, Jonas?”
I could tell Jonas was relieved I wasn’t going to pursue Dad’s past trespasses, or maybe, he was just relieved the call was coming to an end. “Okay. I’ll be home late afternoon, or you can leave a message with Claire. Good talking to you, Maj.”
“Yeah. Good talking to you Jonas.”
I stood gripping the receiver, staring at Sam’s smiling face in the pewter frame on my desk. I picked it up. The picture had been taken on Sam’s fiftieth birthday in our back garden next to the juniper tree. He’d posed under the rose arbor, a profusion of pink blooms hanging above his right shoulder. He’d just finished telling me that he had to go on a trip to China for two weeks, and I’d been upset. We’d planned a long weekend at the seaside in Maine, and I’d been looking forward to getting away. Sam had picked a wise time to break the news; our friends would be arriving soon for his birthday dinner and it wouldn’t do for me to stay angry. In the photograph, Sam’s smiling at me like a guilty boy who’s trying to win me over with shamefaced charm. He was like Dad in that way. Both could turn on the likability factor at whim, no matter the emotions whirling about them.
I sighed and set the photo back in its place. There’d been no recourse for me then, and there was no recourse for me now. I continued to come second place to Sam’s import business. Like Jonas, I could not envision Sam retiring, even though he’d mentioned it twice in the last month. He might as well have said he’d be cutting off an arm.
I must have dozed, because when I opened my eyes, the room had lightened and there were violet shadows in the garden. I looked up and saw streaks of pinkish light lacing the grey sky. My neck felt tender, and I moved it slowly back and forth to work out the crick that had set in while I’d slept. With the mohair blanket held tightly over my shoulders, I went about making coffee. The morning ritual—drawing water from the tap, inserting a clean filter, grinding the beans and measuring out heaping teaspoons of coffee granules. Soon, the smell of strong Colombian brew filled the kitchen. I reached into the cupboard above the coffeepot and took my chipped, lemon-coloured mug and the oversized green mug that Sam favoured from the shelf. With two full cups, I ascended the stairs to our bedroom. Sam was just propping himself up against the headboard when I set the coffee cup next to him on the bedside table. He’d turned on the lamp, and the yellow light pooled around him.
“Did you have trouble sleeping?” he asked as he reached for the mug. He’d put on his glasses and peered at me from over the rims. His sharp blue eyes appeared to be sizing me up.
“I’ve had better nights.” I climbed in next to him, careful not to spill coffee onto the duvet. We sipped our coffee in silence. I looked out the window.
“Snow’s started. It should be a mucky morning getting to work.”
Sam looked toward the window, where flakes were swirling against the pane as if they were inside a snow globe. “Isn’t this your early morning?”
I nodded. “I’ll have to finish my coffee and get moving. I have a couple of new assessments and then a facelift at two. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was determined.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-five. She’s a CBC reporter and thinks she has to look young to get the good stories. If I told you who I was talking about, you’d be shocked. She looks fine just as she is.”
“Well, their vanity pays your salary. And pays it handsomely.” Sam reached over and patted my knee through the blanket. He was only too aware of my internal struggle but always made light of it. He wasn’t aware how my dissatisfaction with my work had intensified over the last year. Plastic surgeon to the rich was something I’d never wanted to become.