The next day, before George-Harrison could stop me, I jumped behind the wheel of the pickup. He did protest that it was his car, but I reminded him that he had done all the driving in Baltimore, and it was only fair. He seemed to get a kick out of my childish and stubborn behavior. We took to the road once more.
After two hours of driving with George-Harrison as my copilot, we passed through a wrought-iron gate and continued down a gravel road toward an elegant residence perched on a hill. The park surrounding the place was empty, the weather far too cold for the residents to venture out for a stroll.
“It’s not exactly Hyde Park, is it?” George-Harrison said.
“Have you ever been to London?”
“No. I only really know it from movies, but I did check it out a bit online, you know, back when we were in Baltimore.”
“Really? You don’t say. Why would you do that?”
“Just out of curiosity.”
I parked beneath an ornate awning and the two of us entered the residence.
As we walked into the reading room, I quickly recognized May from the picture at Sailor’s Hideaway, although presently she was far less jubilant. She sat staring sourly at an old woman playing a game of solitaire at a nearby table, as if upset that she hadn’t been invited to join in. May’s skin had been marked by the passage of time, but the twinkle in her eyes was just as bright as it was in the photo on the wall. The sight of her made my heart swell in ways I hadn’t anticipated. This woman loved my mother, and my mother loved her. May knew things about my mum that I would never understand. It made me think of an old African proverb. When an old person dies, it’s as though a library has burnt to the ground. I longed to discover the volumes May still carried around with her, even if she herself had long since forgotten them.
“You brought your girlfriend!” she cried, rising to her feet to greet us. “I’m so glad the two of you patched things up. I knew you couldn’t stay mad at each other forever. I can’t even remember what you were fighting about in the first place, so it couldn’t have been that serious!”
George-Harrison was mortified. I let him stew in it for a couple of seconds before coming to his rescue. I reached out to shake her hand, but May pulled me in close for a hug and spoke right in my ear. “While I have you here, let me just say that it’s not my fault if my son is such an enormous pain in the ass,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against mine. Her skin was soft as anything, and she had a surprisingly strong grip for her age. I picked up the scent of ambergris, which I immediately recognized from the fragrance that Mum had worn every Sunday.
“Is that . . . Jicky? Your perfume?”
May gaped back at me, peering right into my eyes. “Why ask, if you already know?” she said, turning back toward her son.
I decided to give them some time alone and told them I was going to take a walk around the grounds.
“If you’re planning on smoking a cigarette, be subtle about it! They confiscate every last smoke, the bastards. Not for your health, God knows, but just to keep them for themselves! So, how is school going, son?” she asked. “Are they giving you lots of homework?”
I stepped outside, but it was far too chilly, and besides, I wasn’t a smoker. Slipping back into the reading room, I settled down at a table near an old man with his nose buried in a book. Whatever he was reading must have been very funny, since he chuckled several times as he read. After a few minutes passed, I realized that he hadn’t turned the page. Not even once. The realization was far more chilling than even the cold outside. I could see May and George-Harrison talking on the other side of the room. The conversation seemed sporadic, but in truth I wasn’t spying to try and figure out what they were talking about. I was gazing at George-Harrison in awe. He was so patient and loving, the way he seemed to hang on her every word, however nonsensical. I almost wanted to lose my memory so someone would show the same affection toward me.
The old man beside me burst out laughing once more, but this time, his guffaw quickly transformed into a hacking cough. All at once, the man’s face turned cherry red. He leapt to his feet, retching, and then collapsed to the ground.
The care worker on call in the reading room rushed in to help, but soon became totally overwhelmed and paralyzed with panic. The other residents watched with giddy curiosity, more affected by witnessing something out of the ordinary than by the fact that one of their peers was fighting for his life. Suddenly, George-Harrison pushed past the panicking care worker and leaned down over the suffocating man. He shoved two fingers into his mouth to open his airways. The man let out a gasp and his breath steadied. Though still incapacitated, he seemed out of immediate danger, with the color returning to his cheeks. But he had yet to open his eyes, and he didn’t respond when George-Harrison gently shook him.
“Mr. Gauthier, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” The old man gave George-Harrison’s hand a weak little squeeze.