had whispered into her ear. Her cap of red hair crackled like fire in the overhead light. They looked so young and carefree that I felt a momentary sadness for a time long past in my own life. Had I ever been that happy?
“It’s not that easy,” I said at last, pulling myself back. “I signed a five-year lease on my office. Besides, if Sam is serious about retiring, we’ll need my salary.”
“Nonsense. Sam must have a pension, and you’ve got to have enough socked away to keep you in fine style.”
I didn’t want to tell Fiona that I had no idea the state of our finances. It all went into a joint account that Sam looked after. If Fiona knew, she’d give me a royal raking over. She’d told me more than once that for a brilliant doctor, I was lax about the details of my life.
“I couldn’t imagine not working,” I muttered as the waitress placed water glasses in front of us.
After that, I steered the conversation away from me. I’d learned long ago that people like to talk about themselves and their own lives, and I could ask questions to nudge them there. Even Fiona, my best friend and a good psychologist, was susceptible. She went on at length about her latest patients—a child of ten who wet her bed every night and a seven-year-old boy who liked to light fires. We were sipping on steaming cups of coffee thick with cream when she finally stopped talking about her work and zoomed her attention back on me.
“Does Sam know how unhappy you are?”
“What?” She’d caught me by surprise. I should have remembered how astute Fiona was when it came to reading people. She was a psychologist, after all. “Whatever do you mean?” I tried a smile. “I’m not so sure happiness comes into it after you’ve been married ten years.”
Fiona’s eyes bored into mine and I inwardly squirmed. I usually avoided any talk of my feelings. She continued, “I’ve known you five years now, Maja, and I’ve learned to read you, probably more than you’d like. It looks to me like you’re having more and more trouble fitting into the world you’ve carved out for yourself.”
“You’ve never said anything,” I said, at a loss.
“I figured you’d tell me what you wanted me to know when you were ready, and if you’re never ready. . .” Fiona shrugged and smiled. “You’re a very private person, Maja, and I respect that. You remind me a lot of my kid sister, Katrina.”
“My life is fine. I am fine.” The mantra I kept repeating, it seemed. “I’m not thrilled about my work, but neither are a lot of people.” I suddenly realized that Fiona was my closest friend, and I barely shared anything that meant anything with her. Instead, I’d kept to safe topics like work and books and social functions. “I’m sorry, Fiona,” I said. “I’m not great at this spilling my guts thing.” I uttered a shaky laugh. “The irony is that I’ve picked you as a friend.”
“I think one day, just like Sleeping Beauty, you’re going to wake up and face life square on. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for you.” She hunched forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. “You’ve so much going on, my friend, and you have no idea.”
“Will that be all?”
I looked up. Our waitress was standing between us, scribbling on the bill. She was staring over our heads through the plate glass window that captured the bustle of Bank Street.
“Yes, that’s all for now,” Fiona said as she reached out for the check and smiled at me. “It’s time we put on our winter coats and got back into the fray.”
When everything else in my life seemed out of my control, I could rely on my skill as a plastic surgeon to give me a feeling of competence and even peace. It was no surprise then, when the rhytidectomy went without complication. I’d opted for a local anesthetic, and our thirty-five year old reporter would be going home to spend the night sleeping it off at home with a tube for drainage behind her ear. I left her resting in the post-op room after leaving instructions with the nurses and went to the 13 ward to check on another patient who’d had a tummy tuck the day before. She’d spend one more night in the hospital before release. I was pleased to see they’d removed her intravenous drip and that she was sitting up, sipping on some broth.
Seven o’clock found me backing my silver Ford Taurus out of the reserved doctors’ parking to head to our New Edinborough home. I was tired but relatively happy with the day. A recent dusting of snow gave the city a softened, new-world patina caught in the glare of my headlights and the myriad lights of the city. The snow’s whiteness lifted my spirits, and I was suddenly looking forward to a night in with Sam. I knew I’d been out of sorts and withdrawn lately, and we needed to connect. Hopefully, he’d have defrosted one of the many packets of frozen meals and started supper by the time I got home. We’d eat in front of the fireplace in the back room and listen to a classical recording from his extensive collection. He’d mentioned buying a rare Mozart recording that he wanted me to hear.
I took the long way, turning north along the canal past the University of Ottawa. I enjoyed this route, and it let me clear my head. By the Rideau Centre, I stopped at a red light and reached for my cellphone. I looked at the brown copper roof of the Chateau Laurier and its castle-like towers as I checked my messages. Two waiting. I played the first. Sam’s resonant voice saying goodbye filled my ear, and I felt my spirits plunge. I’d forgotten he was heading to New York. He would be in the air now, likely sipping on a Scotch and soda and reading the paper. That meant I’d be having supper alone again.
The light changed, and I dropped the cellphone into my open purse. The second message would wait. I crossed Rideau Street and travelled north on Sussex, past the bustle of the Byward Market and the spired glass magnificence of the art gallery. I turned right and entered my neighborhood, passing the treed grounds of the Governor General’s residence, the extensive property hemmed in by a black iron fence. One more right turn onto our street and the welcome sight of our driveway. I parked and stepped out of the car. The tire marks from Sam’s Land Rover were filled with snow. He’d been gone a long time. I lifted my head and looked at our two-storey red brick house, set back from the street and nestled in behind conical cedar bushes and lilac trees, now encased in clumps of snow. Its narrow frontage kept it unassuming, hiding its spacious rooms, rich oak floors and high ceilings. I shivered in my wool coat and hurried up the stone walkway, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden by the thin snow cover. The porch light was on a timer, as was the lamp on the post closer to the driveway. They lit my way through the early darkness of the chilly February evening.
The first thing I did was run a hot bath. I’d been chilled by the day and soaked for half an hour, letting the Jacuzzi jets pulsate away all the tension from my neck and shoulders. By the time I dressed in flannel pajamas and a housecoat, my stomach was rumbling, and I hurried downstairs to the kitchen.
I heated up a packet of leftover stew from the freezer and poured a glass of pinot noir the colour of crushed rubies. The house was cool, and I settled in front of the gas fireplace in the backroom to warm up. Instead of classical music, I put Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” on our antiquated turntable and relaxed into his voice. The wind had picked up, and I could hear it battering the house and rattling down the chimney. Gusts of snow blew past the windows and danced in the lights placed about the backyard. Halfway through my meal, I remembered the phone message that I hadn’t listened to. I took a forkful of food and pushed myself to my feet from where I sat in front of the coffee table. I waited until I was sitting once again in front of my meal before retrieving the saved message. It was a moment before I could place my sister-in-law’s voice. Hysteria had sharpened Claire’s usually level voice, and I felt prickles of fear rippling along my skin.
“Maja? Maja,” a deep
