A Map of Glass - Jane Urquhart [135]
“The art is different than you might think,” Sylvia told him. “Jerome takes photos and makes things out of doors.” She gestured toward the collection on the table, then looked at Mira, who was removing a grey pea jacket and hanging it on a nail beside the door. “Mira does a kind of dance … a mysterious performance.”
“This is the island,” Jerome said to Mira, who had moved toward the table. “This is what I was doing on the island.”
The girl bent over to look at the pictures more carefully. “Yes,” she said, “yes … this is good.”
Once they entered the living space, as Mira called it, Sylvia and Mira sat on the couch while Malcolm continued to stand near the door. Jerome walked over to the crate, lifted the journals, placed them in Sylvia’s hands. “Don’t forget these,” he said.
“We loved them,” said Mira, placing her hand on Sylvia’s sleeve, “those stories. But what happened to Branwell … and Ghost?”
“What stories?” asked Malcolm before Sylvia could answer.
“Just some notes,” said Sylvia, “that I found somewhere. That’s all … all it is. I read them at night, when you were on call or when you were sleeping so you didn’t … well … you didn’t know about it.” She saw her husband flinch when she said this. “I don’t mean that I was keeping it from you, exactly, no, I wasn’t doing that. It was just something that was private, known only to me.”
“And now known to these two strangers,” said Malcolm.
“Not strangers. Not now.”
“No, I suppose not.” He glanced at Jerome, who, like himself, had remained standing. “I hope this wasn’t too disturbing for you.”
“Disturbing?” said Jerome. “No, it wasn’t disturbing.”
“It was fine,” said Mira. “It was good. It was all just talking … and interesting.” Her hand was still on the older woman’s arm. “What are you going to do, what do you want to do now?”
“I’ll go back, I suppose,” said Sylvia. She raised one hand and touched the top of Mira’s head. “You have such wonderful hair.”
Mira stood, took Sylvia’s hand, and helped her rise from the couch. “Come into the bedroom,” she said. “I’ll show you the new fabric that I bought. And I have some borders, just some scraps really, that would be good, I think, for those tactile maps you make.”
“Wait a minute,” said Malcolm, “shouldn’t we be going?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sylvia softly, “not yet, not quite yet.”
Jerome could sense Malcolm’s irritation as Mira drew Sylvia out of the room. The older man looked around the space for a while, then turned toward him. Jerome was leaning against the wall farthest from where the doctor stood. The man’s coat remained fastened, his scarf tied, and Jerome could tell that he wanted to be gone, that this was not the kind of interior in which he felt comfortable. He had looked at the fluorescent lights and the cement floor with distaste the minute he had come into the room. Jerome could imagine him wondering how the hell his wife had managed to spend so much time in such stark surroundings.
“So it was you who found the Alzheimer’s patient, the one in the ice,” he said to Jerome. “They often get lost like that and come to a bad end. It’s always a tragedy … but what can anyone do?”
Jerome remained silent.
“I’ve often wondered if they think they know where they are going when they wander off, if they have a destination in mind, and then forget all about their original intention. But by that stage it’s almost impossible to determine what is in their minds. Must have been a shock for you to find him like that.”
“Yes,” said Jerome, “I was out there alone … but fortunately I had my cellphone with me. I went —” He stopped speaking. Why was he revealing this pointless information? He didn’t like the direction the conversation was going but did not know how to introduce another subject.
“I suppose she … I suppose Sylvia told you that she knew him, this … Andrew …” Malcolm paused, trying to come up with the last name.
“Andrew Woodman,” said Jerome.