Facing Reality

PROLOGUE

I notice the hydrangea blossoms are awfully pink this year. Usually, they are just a plain white, with the odd pink one here and there. I wonder if it has something to do with the vast number of bees that have been swarming around them for the past month. I don’t like the hydrangea bush too much. It always blooms at the end of summer, and when the days get cold and windy, the poor little blossoms shiver so on their branches; it turns my heart as cold as ice.

The hydrangea is a symbol of things to come, a cold, bleak, long winter. Only this year I won’t be here staring out of my kitchen window, looking at nothing in particular, longing for the south and the musky air and long, hot days.

I will be there in my little cottage in Biloxi, Mississippi. I can’t wait to redecorate and make it my own. I can’t wait to see the sun sinking low, nestled in hues of orange, pink and purple rays, dancing on the water.

But most of all, I can’t wait to see him again - Joseph Fontaine - my true love. It was with unexpected pleasure and surprise that I heard from him. I had no idea where he was. But fate stepped in, as it had so many times before in my life and connected us again.

Now I must hurry and put my thoughts aside. There is so much to do before I board the plane to New Orleans. I must pack one life away and open a new one.

PART ONE

FACING REALITY

CHAPTER ONE

Now and Then

As I close the lid on my last suitcase, his hand falls over mine. I knew he was behind me; twenty years of his presence couldn’t be ignored.

Please don’t make this mistake, he whispers, and I feel his warm breath on my neck.

It’s not a mistake, I whisper back, not turning around.

Marlee, we’ve got to talk this out. I love you, please don’t leave me. His voice is strained and shaky. Doesn’t he realize it’s too late for talking? No, he doesn’t realize, because he never did. He always thought the words, I love you, fixed everything.

I turn to face him. Sam, take care of yourself. I’m not going to tell you not to work too hard. He starts to grin then erases it quickly, and the sad, forlorn face returns.

I hear the taxi honk and reach for my bag. I hurry down the stairs and place it beside the other luggage. There are no footsteps behind me. The cab driver is walking towards the front door. I open the door for him and he greets me, then he picks up some of my luggage, takes it to the trunk of the cab and returns for the rest.

One bag is left, which I will handle. He waits for me in the car. I turn and take one last look at my home. Slowly, I look up and see him standing there at the top of the stairs. There’s nothing left to say.

I smile weakly and pretend I don’t see the tears rolling down his cheeks. I’ll write, I call up the stairway.

I’ll answer, he replies.

I turn, bending to retrieve my bag. I walk out the door, towards the cab. Placing my bag on the back seat, I slide in and sit beside it.

Where to? the cabby wants to know.

The airport, I reply in a hollow voice that doesn’t sound like my own. Well, whose voice is it, I wonder? Since I haven’t been myself for so long, maybe I just don’t know me anymore.

I look back once to see if he’s standing in the doorway, but he isn’t there. The cab speeds on towards the airport and I get jittery. I almost can’t believe that I finally got the courage to leave. But I mustn’t back-track, so I take a deep breath and busy my mind with the plane schedule. I dig in my purse and unfold the itinerary, skimming the words I know by heart:

6035 - Halifax to Toronto

7013 - Toronto to Chicago

1645 - Chicago to New Orleans

Arrival 8:10 pm.

I arrive at the airport with no time to spare. I’m glad I have to hurry; it’s less nerve-racking that way. I check my bags and hurry through the gate, throwing my carry-on case and purse on the belt. I pick them up on the other side and race towards the attendant, collecting the boarding passes. She smiles at my flushed appearance and passes me my stub. Seat 8-D, she tells me. Good, I think, a window seat.

When I finally get settled, my carry-on case tucked under the seat and my seatbelt secured, a flood of old memories rush through my mind. I’ve felt these giddy feelings before, all the mixed emotions of wondering if I am doing the right thing. But I’m too old to feel that way. I’m supposed to be mature, and sure of myself. Not so - the thought of seeing Joe again makes my stomach dip - like one might feel going over the top of a Ferris wheel.

Joseph Fontaine. His name still sends shivers down my spine. And although it’s been almost thirty years since we parted, I’ve never stopped loving him. As the plane gathers momentum and gently lifts off the runway, I feel like twenty-one again, the first time I’d travelled to see Joe.

My mind drifts back in time…back to my return to Canada, after I’d left Joe in New Orleans.

****

It was November 1964. I was relieved to have finally arrived in Ottawa. Tired and aching from sitting so long, I looked around the bus terminal for my family. Gathering my luggage around me, I sat down for a minute to get my bearings. Then I saw them. My family, the people that I had almost forgotten about for months

There stood Mom and Dad and Grace. Mom was holding little Tommy. She stepped forward and said, This is your nephew.

Tommy squirmed in Mom’s arms and she turned to hand him to Grace. Turning back to me, putting on a smile, she said, It’s good to have you home, but you look thin.

I’m okay, Mom, I’m just really beat. I need a week’s sleep. I laughed but Mom didn’t.

Well, she continued, there’s not much time to sleep around Grace’s place. There’s always something to do and Tommy’s up at dawn.

I put my arm around her shoulder. Don’t worry, Mom; I’m home now, I’ll help you.

Dad proceeded to pick up my luggage. I took the smaller bag and we trudged to the car. Dad drove and Tommy fell asleep in Mom’s arms.

Grace rambled on and on asking about my trip, my impressions of the South, and then she started complaining about her husband, Charles, being away so much. Everyone called Grace’s husband, Charlie, except Grace and Mom. Mom did it to please Grace. But I had always had the impression that Charlie didn’t like being called Charles. At least he always introduced himself as Charlie, so I assumed he liked it better.

The drone of Grace’s voice and the heat in the car made me sleepy, and I thought I might nod off but I kept shaking my head and managed to stay awake. Here I was home again. I’d gone thousands of miles to get away from Grace. Now, I was planning to live with her.

CHAPTER TWO

Questions and Answers

When we finally got to the apartment, Mom put Tommy to bed and all my stuff landed in Grace’s room, which I was to share with her during the week. On the weekends that Charlie came home, I would sleep in the living room on the sofa. We didn’t talk much that first night. Grace wanted to, but I was so tired I drifted off after answering only one of her many questions.

The next day we settled into a routine. I didn’t help Mom as much as I had hoped I might, since I was anxious to start looking for work. Grace seemed renewed since I’d arrived, and even Mom commented favourably on her much-approved attitude. We all helped look after Tommy, and Dad and Mom often took him with them in the car when they went out. Dad seemed fine, he had had a mild heart attack a while back but now he acted his normal self, as far as I could see.

When I had phoned Mom from the South, she had gone on so about having to look after Grace and Tommy. Then she carried on about Dad not being well and how she was wearing herself out looking after them all. Grace had had a miscarriage and Mom said she wasn’t doing too well. But as far as I could see, Grace seemed fine.

The second day I was home, Grace was lying down after lunch and Tommy was napping in his crib. I went into the bedroom to finish unpacking. Grace, who had been lying on the bed with her back towards me, turned over and said, Okay, Marlee, you’re not tired now, tell me all about your travels. I sighed and knew I might as well get it over with as she would never let me be until her curiosity was satisfied.

Really Grace, I don’t know where to start.

Start at the beginning. Grace had all the answers.

Do you mean when I went to Albany last November?

No, no, last summer. I want to hear about your travels in the South. And what happened between you and that Joe fellow that you followed around.

I didn’t follow him around Grace. I went to New Orleans to visit him.

But you hardly knew him. How long did you know him anyway?

I met him in Halifax last year, and I knew him...three or four days.

Oh, yes, he was the sailor, right? Really, Marlee, did you think you knew him well enough to travel that far to see him?

Yes, I answered bluntly.

Grace sighed. It must have been love at first sight.

It was. I smiled.

She looked at me carefully. Was it for him too? she asked, her blue eyes observing my reaction.

Not at first. Well maybe, maybe not. I don’t know. He kept fighting against it.

So, what happened when you finally got there? Was it exciting seeing him again? Grace was all eyes.

Of course it was, I answered. But it was also terrifying.

Why?

Because, it had been so long and you’re right, we hardly knew each other.