“I’ll call an ambulance,” said the care worker.
“There’s no time,” George-Harrison insisted. “It’ll take them half an hour to get here, and he needs to get to the hospital sooner than that. I’ll drive him. Grab some blankets; we can put him in the back of my truck.”
A young attendant who had been serving cookies nearby offered to take him in her own car, a station wagon, so the poor man could at least stay warm. Two other staff members arrived soon after to lend a helping hand. When Mr. Gauthier was all set up in the back of the station wagon, George-Harrison announced that he was coming along, too. I wanted to go as well, feeling partially responsible since the poor guy had collapsed before my very eyes, but the stupid station wagon only had one other seat available, and George-Harrison said I should stay behind.
I watched from beneath the awning as they exited the wrought-iron gate, hugging myself to stay warm as the headlights faded from view.
When I returned to the reading room, everything was back to normal. Residents were carrying on as if nothing had happened, or else they had already forgotten the whole episode. The woman next to May had returned to her game of solitaire, while others were content watching TV or simply staring into the distance. May peered straight at me with an odd look, crooking her finger and beckoning me closer. I sat down beside her.
“It really is something getting to meet you, you know,” she said with a smile. “You look so much like her. It’s uncanny. Like a ghost from the distant past. She’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She’s gone.”
“What a god-awful tragedy. I should have been first to go. But, oh well. She always knew how to make a dramatic exit.”
“It wasn’t intentional, and it really wasn’t dramatic either, at least not the way you mean,” I replied, leaping to my mother’s defense out of pure instinct.
“You’re right, of course. But once upon a time, it was another story. And that’s what ruined us. We almost got away, we could have, but she wouldn’t hear of it, all because of what was in here,” she murmured, absentmindedly rubbing her stomach. “You’re not planning on stealing him away from me, are you? Because I can tell you I would never let that happen.”
“Steal who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I’m talking about my son, my only child.”
“You said you almost got away . . . away from what?”
“From the god-awful mess your mother got us into. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came to find out . . . where she hid it?”
My breath quickened.
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’re full of it! But you look so much like her, I don’t mind. She may be gone, but I’m still in love with her, even after all these years. I’m going to let you in on a secret, as long as it stays between us. I absolutely forbid you to say a single word to anyone . . .”
George-Harrison had been hoping my luck would rub off on him, but apparently it was still only confined to me. I had no way of knowing how long she would stay lucid. I remembered him saying these little interludes were as rare as they were brief. There was no time to think it over. So, I made a promise I had no intention of keeping. May reached out and took my hands in her own, drawing a deep breath and smiling warmly.
All at once, her face lit up, as though the photo from Sailor’s Hideaway were coming to life before my very eyes.
“I took some insane risks to get those invitations,” she began. “But that was nothing compared to the night of the ball. It was a night of reckoning. Fitting, a masquerade ball . . . like the grand finale to a thirty-six-year-old spectacle—a show full of lies. But it won’t be long now . . . before everything comes to light . . .”
36
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Eastern Townships, Quebec
Something strange had come over May, like an inner voice awakening after years of lying dormant. She spoke like a perfect narrator, whisking me away to a Baltimore evening, back to late October 1980 . . .
“Our chauffeur we hired for the night pulled up beneath the awning and we stepped out of the car, the procession of elegant vehicles continuing after us like clockwork. Those lucky enough to be invited that evening were huddled out front awaiting entry, with a pair of hostesses at the door in matching uniforms collecting invitations and checking names. I was wearing a long skirt, a man’s tuxedo shirt under a formal coat, a top hat, and a mask. Sally-Anne was decked out in a domino-style wraparound dress, with a dark mask and hood that hid her face. We had chosen our flowing costumes carefully; they had to let us move about freely, yet still be large enough to conceal what we planned to walk off with.