at the man who’d removed Yvette from the hospital.
“My father has asked you to leave,” he said in precise English. “Please do so immediately.”
Father? Yvette had never mentioned a brother. “I am Meg Harris, her friend. I’m very worried about her. Please, just give me a few minutes with her.” I stepped back to get a better view of this older brother, clad so elegantly in designer black.
His thin lips firmed up in the same grim line as his father’s. As an afterthought, I added, “I saved your sister’s life.”
He looked at me with Yvette’s brown almond-shaped eyes, except that rather than projecting the wariness of a deer, they were cold and threatening like a cougar. He turned to speak with his father. After a couple of sentences of guttural joual, he turned back to me.
“D’accord, we agree. But you can visit with her for only a few minutes.” He opened the door for me to pass through and added, “My father and I thank you for saving Yvette.”
I glanced back at the old man, expecting to find him following two steps behind me to make sure I didn’t stray from the agreed-to path. Instead he remained on the porch. He was reaching down to a small cat with dark auburn fur. Emitting a plaintive meow, the animal leapt into his arms. I didn’t need to see Papa Gagnon’s face to know that his scowl had softened. His gentle caress on this purring furball told me. Too bad Yvette wasn’t a cat.
I followed her brother into a narrow hallway. This was the first time I had ever been inside the Gagnon house, and as with the outside, I was surprised, very surprised. The front parlour could’ve been the movie set for Kamaraska, an old film about Old Quebec. It was filled with the kind of priceless antiques collectors fought over, perfect examples of early Quebec furniture, including a curly-armed settee made from birds-eye maple, a carved pine armoire and a grandfather clock. And in the middle of this two-hundred-year-old scene clashed the modern day reality of a home entertainment centre, a system I certainly couldn’t afford, complete with a fifty-two inch HDTV screen, DVD player and surround-sound.
Watching my perusal, Yvette’s brother said, “A son must support his family as best he can.”
And judging by the quality of his clothing, I could believe it. He was dressed in the Italian answer to country chic, complete with an Armani suede jacket and Gucci loafers. The clothes fit the Mercedes.
We walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. As our footsteps echoed along the bare wooden floor of the hall, I said, “You must have a good job. What do you do for a living?”
“Investments,” came his quick reply.
Made sense. You only had to read the financial papers to know the kind of money investment brokers made. Still, it seemed a bit surprising that a person from the backwoods would end up in this fast-paced, highly aggressive, urban industry.
Familiar with some of the brokerages through my own modest investments, I asked, “Who do you work for?”
Expecting him to jump at the opportunity to brag, as any broker I knew was inclined to do, I was surprised when he ignored my question and said instead, “My sister is very weak. I ask that you do not stay longer than a few minutes.”
“If she’s so weak,” I hazarded, “why did you remove her from the hospital against the doctor’s advice?”
He ignored this question too and stopped in front of one of the closed doors that lined the unlit hall. He opened it. I stepped through, and the door clicked behind me.
Yvette lay asleep on a narrow cast iron bed. I tiptoed into the room to wait a few minutes in case she woke up. Her small oval face peeked out from the white bandage circling her head. Her arm, encased in a cast, lay on top of a quilted bed cover.
While I waited, I surveyed her room, a distinct contrast to the abundance downstairs. A nun’s cell. Small, bare of furniture, except for her bed and an unadorned wooden chest of drawers and night table. Everything in white, the walls, the floor, the furniture, the coverings and the lace curtains. But on the wall behind the bed, where I expected to see the traditional crucifix invariably found in French Canadian homes, there was nothing but a vague outline where one had once hung.
And the bedroom, unlike my own, was completely free of clutter. No stray piece of clothing lay on the floor or hung from her bedstead. The cupboard door was firmly shut, the drawers likewise, the tops of the dresser and night table equally devoid of anything personal. In fact, there was nothing in this bedroom to suggest Yvette lived here.
I’d no sooner finished this survey than she opened her eyes and whispered, “Meg, vous êtes… No, I speak English. Please. You are coming here?”
“Yvette, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”
“How you are here?” She appeared worried, confused. “I drove,” I switched to French, thinking it would be easier for her.
“Non, non. In my room.” She persisted in English.
“Speak French, Yvette. It will be easier for you.”
“No. I speak English. Tell me who permit you in my room?”
I reverted to my mother tongue. “Your brother. Don’t you want me here?”
The look of alarm I had become used to flashed through her eyes. “Yves?”
“Yes, if that’s his name.”
“He here?”
“Yes. Didn’t he bring you home from the hospital?”
She closed her eyes, then gasped as if in pain.
“You left the hospital before you were supposed to,” I said. “I came to see how you’re doing. If you want to go back, I can take you.”
She shook her head. “No, I hurt a little, but it is okay. I stay here. It is better.”
“Are you sure? I think it’s more important you have proper medical care than do what your family wants.”
“Do not worry. I am okay. Papa look after me.”
Although I thought his style of care would be more like a jailer than a nurse, I wasn’t going to force her against her will. Besides, a faint healthy pink had replaced last night’s worrisome pallor.
Instead, I followed up on a question she hadn’t been able to answer in the hospital. “Can you remember anything yet from your accident?”
“No. Nothing. I remember the hospital.” She smiled shyly. “You stay with me. Thank you.”
“And you still don’t recall being on the trail?”
She gripped her quilted cover with her one good hand. “I not understand.”
I repeated the question in French.
She persisted in English. “No, no. I mean, why you say I go on this trail?”
Although last night I’d told her about finding her at the bottom of Kamikaze Pass, it was evident that she hadn’t fully taken it in. I described
