north of Sheppard Avenue. For several summers she and her friends had spent whole afternoons reclining around the outdoor pool meeting unsuitable boys. Twenty years later, the “Y” was still there. She was glad to be driving against traffic in the morning rush hour as she caught a glimpse of the 1960s white stone building, updated, added on to. It was sprawled on the edge of a ravine that extended from south of Sheppard all the way up past the northern boundaries of the city, a greenbelt along whose bottom groove snaked the Don River. Only a river could stop developers from paving over the grass from end to end. No matter that in some places the riverbed spanned a mere four feet. There was no way of getting around a river, its inevitable pull, like gravity, toward the lake, so one had to accept it gracefully and incorporate it into the plan. The ravine this April was still pallid, the trees bare, but there was an expectancy in the branches, a knowledge of green beneath the dormant grass that Rebecca wished she could be part of.
She had begun to feel a connection before Goldie died. She couldn’t think of her as Mrs. Kochinsky anymore; she had gotten too close for that. Rebecca had been almost optimistic, as far as that went; not very far considering the state of her psyche. But it had all flattened out. No, not flattened. Sunk. Declined. She was going to have to catch herself on the decline, or someone else would. The man who killed Goldie, whoever he was. She had to find out what she could now. She was hoping against hope that Chana could tell her something. Goldie had visited her sister frequently. Maybe she’d said something about the man she thought was going to kill her.
Once past Finch, Rebecca kept her eye out for Sunnydale Terrace, the only other nursing home she knew of on Bathurst besides Baycrest Hospital. Baycrest was the model in Toronto, the queen of geriatric medicine, not a waiting-room for death like those places usually were. She hated Feldberg for his cheapness. Poorer people were in Baycrest.
The sign came into view announcing a two-storey box of a building, probably the same vintage as the “Y,” only not updated. The red brick had lasted the decades well enough, but the place had a desultory look to it, sun-faded curtains stretched crookedly across the upstairs windows.
Rebecca stepped up to the reception desk where a slim dark-haired woman sat in an exaggerated upright position listening on the phone. A plump blonde in a short skirt was passing behind her.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said.
The blonde looked at her but hardly stopped moving. Rebecca had seen the look before. Professionals in hospitals saved it for people they didn’t need to pay attention to. That meant everyone except doctors. There was another expression altogether they saved for doctors.
“I’m Dr. Temple,” Rebecca said crisply, delighted to see the woman stop in her tracks and rearrange her face. There, that was the expression she wanted. A bit of deference. “I’m looking for Chana Feldberg.”
The blonde smiled a tight polite smile as she came around the desk. “Mrs. Feldberg is up in her room. Is this a professional visit, Doctor, or are you a relative?”
“I was her sister’s physician. Mrs. Kochinsky. Have the police come by to speak to Mrs. Feldberg?”
The blonde put her stubby hands together in front of her. “I was horrified to hear about what happened. It shocked us all here. The police called this morning but I explained Mrs. Feldberg’s condition to them and they left it up to us to deal with it.”
“And what is her condition?” Rebecca asked, getting a bad feeling from the woman’s tone of voice.
“Her behaviour has regressed. We think there’s some dementia involved. Maybe Alzheimer’s. Most of the time she won’t verbalize and when she does, it’s in Yiddish. If we didn’t feed her, she wouldn’t eat. Even then, she’ll only eat in her room, refuses to socialize. It’s difficult for the staff.”
There was little expression in her voice except for a slight whine.
“Have you told her about her sister’s death?” Rebecca asked.
“The social worker and I believe she wouldn’t understand, and in so far as she’s able to understand, we feel it wouldn’t be in her best interests to be told. It would just upset her.”
And that would be difficult for you, thought Rebecca.
“I’d like to see her,” she said.
The blonde glanced at her briefly, only in acknowledgement, no challenge. Rebecca knew her own authority, but suspected that the woman had reservations about Rebecca’s role: was she going to tell Chana and set her off for good? Rebecca could leave after this visit and not come back. The staff had to deal with the patient afterwards. None of this was voiced but Rebecca sensed it in the stiff resentful walk of the chubby woman in front of her, rather brisk considering the heels and tight white skirt. As it happened Rebecca hadn’t yet decided what she would tell Chana. She despised the power professionals reserved for themselves in making decisions for their charges, though she knew that it was sometimes necessary in cases of patient incompetence.
They stopped in front of room 201. Down the hall a thin craggy-faced man leaned on a cane and watched them. Rebecca hated these places. Waiting for death. The blonde knocked on the door. There was no answer from inside the room, nor did the blonde expect any for she opened the door several seconds later. A tiny bird of a woman sat in a wooden upholstered chair facing the window. She turned her head in anticipation, her face somewhat animated. When she saw Rebecca, her eyes went blank, her cheeks slackened, and she turned back to the window. It was disappointment, Rebecca realized with a chill, that she wasn’t Goldie.
“You have a visitor, dear,” said the blonde in a raised voice. “Dr. Temple has come to see you.”
No response. “Mrs. Feldberg....” The blonde raised her voice another notch.
“It’s all right,” Rebecca broke in. “We’ll be fine.”
Rebecca stepped into the room; the woman clicked the door closed.
On the wall to her right stood a desk with a portable sewing machine in the corner. Small stacks of colourful fabric stretched across the back of the desk. It all looked too neat, as if it were never touched. Rebecca imagined Goldie bringing her sister material to tempt her into activity.
Rebecca brought the only other chair close to the old woman and sat down. Chana’s unwashed grey hair lay thin and flat against her tiny head. Her skin was nearly transparent, the skull beneath poking through. She had once been beautiful, Rebecca knew from her photos. Now her eyes sunk amid features that mingled with bone. She stared out the window but appeared to see nothing. Rebecca followed her eyes toward Bathurst Street and beyond. Across the road, extending as far as she could see, were cemeteries, both Jewish and Christian. Some joke, she thought. The universe was filled with jokes like these. That Rebecca was here at all was a joke. What could this ghost of a woman possibly tell her? Especially since Rebecca couldn’t speak Yiddish.
“I’m Dr. Temple,” she said. “Your sister’s doctor.” She wondered if Chana had regressed beyond the ken of English or whether she was just more comfortable using Yiddish.
Though Rebecca had spoken quietly, the woman was startled, her hands beginning to tremble. That was when Rebecca noticed the doll in Chana’s lap. An uncomfortable pang of recognition went through her. The doll was a match to the one in Goldie’s bedroom, made of coarse grey cotton and striped clothes.
“What an unusual doll. May I see it?” Rebecca asked, holding out her palm.
Without expression, Chana grabbed
