inside — a wrinkled condom wrapper kicked under the bed, maybe, or an empty amyl nitrate vial jammed in behind the fridge, a porn magazine rolled up under the bathroom sink. But no. The three small rooms were pristine, had been thoroughly cleaned by Mom’s cleaning woman. The only visible evidence of Noel’s former tenancy was a small cigarette burn on the arm of the tartanplaid couch.
Mom opened the double-sash windows in the sitting room. “You might find it a little too cozy in here,” she said. “But you can always come stay with us in the big house if you’re not comfortable.”
The old pine kitchen cupboards and the aged hardwood floors were of a worn golden hue, but everything else seemed to be white — white walls, white bedroom furniture, white bathroom fixtures (including a large clawfoot tub with a shower rigged up over top.) The fireplace mantel and surround were also white, and empty of decoration except for an earthenware vase filled with two stalks of white freesia that my mother must have arranged there. I saw her hand too in the placement of a worn leather armchair, perfect for reading, next to a window that gave out onto a beguiling view of sunlight, shadow, and leaves, and near a bookcase filled with the old books I’d stored with my parents when I’d moved to California. The overall impression was of a retreat, like a monk’s cell in its simplicity. All that was missing was the hair shirt, but I already had the figurative one I’d been wearing for months.
My mother followed my eyes around, said, “It’s rather austere-looking, isn’t it? I’ll run out and buy some throw cushions tomorrow to add some colour. In citrus shades, perhaps.”
“No, don’t. I mean, everything’s perfect as is. Thank you. For letting me stay, for fixing up the place, for everything.”This time, my smile was genuine.
Where was I, what day was it, and was I still depressed? These were the questions I was in the habit of asking myself each day before I opened my eyes. And on my first morning back in Rose Park, when I awoke in the chenille-covered double bed in the coach house, I thought the veil of sadness I’d worn for months might have thinned a little. Or maybe I should have pulled down the shades the night before — the sunshine flooding in through the windows was blinding.
I spent the day doing errands of the moving-in kind — I set up bank accounts, arranged phone, cable, and internet hook-ups, foraged among the boxes of my belongings in the parents’ basement for various essential household items I needed, went out and bought a serious bicycle that I intended to use as my major means of transportation. At five o’clock, I walked three blocks to the local grocery store, an upscale emporium referred to by the locals as the Market. It sold flowers, fancy produce, all kinds of meat, sushi, baked goods, prepared food, fifty-dollar bottles of balsamic vinegar, and groceries, including the ingredients I sought for my dinner — pita, goat cheese, cream cheese, and chives. Since the breakup with Gerald, I’d often subsisted on a pathetic but satisfying single person’s meal made by combining the cheeses and chopped chives, and spreading the mixture on toasted pita triangles. My version of comfort food.
I walked home from the store the long way, passed through a park called Cawley Gardens, sat down on a bench there, let the breeze blow my hair and my mind around, and rested my eyes on a house across the road, the house known as Glenwood.
If you didn’t know the story about Jeremiah Brown and the treasure, you’d still notice Glenwood, because it’s so pretty and colourful and ornamented, so different from its plainer neighbours — houses made of grey stucco or dull red brick, their only decorative detail sets of wooden shutters and the occasional concrete lintel. But, to me, who knew the story well, Glenwood was more than an architectural pin-up. I couldn’t look at the house without thinking about Jeremiah Brown and its treasure, or about its current owners, the Greers, whom I’d met some twelve years before, when my mother had organized a welcome-to-Rose-Park brunch in their honour.
As soon as Mom heard that a heart surgeon and his author/illustrator wife had moved into the fiefdom, she contrived an introduction, invited the newcomers over to meet the neighbours who mattered. And vice versa. “They have a daughter your age,” she said, after her initial reconnaissance. “Her name is Hannah. Maybe she’ll be a new friend for you!”
I didn’t bother to reply. I just gave Mom the look every teenage girl favours her mother with sooner or later — the I-can’t-believe-how-much-there-is-to-me-that-you-don’t-understand look. She carried on with her brunch plans regardless. She hired the two blunt-speaking, heavy-smoking, grey-haired ladies in maid’s uniforms that she employed on these occasions to serve, she issued invitations on her monogrammed stationery, and she arranged for her caterer to supply quiches and salads and brown bread and the requisite side of smoked salmon garnished with capers, sliced onions, and lemon wedges. Mom’s version of comfort food.
On party day, I hid out with a book in the glassed-in, fern-filled back room on the main floor that my parents liked to refer to as the conservatory. Soon after the party began, Mom swept into my hideout, trailed by the three Greers, and said, in her over-loud, over-animated social voice, “Blithe, what are you doing in here all alone? Come meet everyone.”
I stood up and said hello. Mrs. Greer had a kind face, of a sparky and keen-eyed variety, as befitted a children’s literature author. Her husband, Dr. Greer, was a polite presence beside her who would meet me ten or twelve more times before deciding that my identity was worth committing to memory.
“And this” Mom said, “is Hannah”
We shook hands, Hannah and me — her grip firm, mine more fish-like — and Mom said, “Blithe’s going into grade twelve at Northside High this September, too!”
Neither of us judged this announcement worthy of a rejoinder. We were too busy assessing each other’s appearance while pretending not to. Hannah was attractive, with naturally curly hair cut short, finely drawn features, and a slim build. She wore shapeless, dun-coloured clothes that seemed to be making a left-wing political statement, possibly related to South American revolutionaries — a folkloric bandanna was tied around her wrist, a hand-beaded belt held up the narrow waist of her pants. I could only imagine what she would make of me, in my more First World attire — a white shirt and khaki skirt.
Before our mutual regard could become awkward, Noel made his entrance and was introduced all around. He showed off his smarmy private school manners with Mr. and Mrs. Greer and favoured Hannah with a roguish grin. “How do you do?” he said. “I’m the more interesting sibling.”
Hannah registered his WASPy, Dad-like looks — the close-set blue eyes, blond hair, princely forelock — glanced back at me, and probably wondered if I was adopted. Or the help. Noel winked at her, said, “I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes I wonder how Blithe and I could be related, too.”
“Oh, Noel,” Mom said. She gave him an affectionate slap on the arm and said, to the room, “He’s such a tease.”
If the Greers drew any conclusions about our family dynamic from this exchange, they hid them well. All Hannah said was, “Blithe, would you mind showing me around the house? It looks so interesting and old.”
Mom said, “I’m sure Blithe would be happy to give you a tour, wouldn’t you, dear?” I agreed, and Mom headed Mr. and Mrs. Greer off to the backyard, where the bar, Dad, and more guests awaited them.
As soon as they’d gone, Noel moved in on Hannah. “Wouldn’t you rather I showed you the garden?” he said. “I could cadge us some champagne on the way.”
I waited to see if this come-on would work — sadly, Noel’s lines usually did — and scored a small victory in our ongoing sibling war when Hannah said, “Maybe later, thanks. Where should we start, Blithe?”
I
