The Taken

16

They’d put together a nice evening for her, something to mark her birthday and the beginning of a new chapter in her life, but none of it went the way they were planning. When Emily heard the door to the downstairs apartment slam shut, she knew Hazel wasn’t going to be the most receptive guest at the evening’s celebrations, and she put her hand on her granddaughter’s wrist and prevented her from opening the door to the basement. “Judging from the sound of your mother’s boots on the parquet, Martha, I’d give her a couple more minutes.”

“I can handle my own mother.”

“Just handle her in a few minutes. She’s going to be feeling a little under the weather tonight.”

Martha released the doorknob and stood back a couple of feet, as if expecting the door to dissolve and admit her on its own terms. She and her grandmother listened to the sounds emanating from below, a combination of heavy footfalls and hoarse mutterings that seemed liberally sprinkled with language one didn’t usually use in front of a child, even a thirty-three-year-old one.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” they heard, and then the sound of a drawer being thrown.

“She does sound a little under the weather,” said Martha, grinning nervously at Emily. “Was she sick when she left for work this morning?”

“Something like that,” said Emily.

“MOTHER!!” came Hazel’s voice from below, volcanic.

“You want to go down there?”

“Maybe I’ll wait another few minutes,” said Martha.

“Hand me that bottle.”

Martha passed her a full two-sixer of J &B.

The basement apartment was littered with thrown things: two full drawers, towels, shoes, sections from various newspapers. She was puffing in a corner of the room like a bull. The door to the upstairs had opened, and she heard her mother descending. “Are you armed?” said Emily from behind the basement door.

“You better not be coming down here without something for my back.”

Her mother opened the door six inches and held out the bottle of J &B. “This is the best I can do.”

Hazel strode to the door and snatched the bottle out of her mother’s hand. She was beginning to feel the heebie-jeebies: it had been almost twenty-four hours since her last pill. Waves of nausea accompanied the anxiety. There was a tumbler in the bathroom meant for drinking water out of; she filled it to the rim. When she came out, Emily was standing in the middle of the room, looking around at the mess, her arms behind her back. “You want a straw?”

“You had no right.”

“I had no right.”

“I had surgery seventeen days ago. I have pain and I have a prescription for pain killers. What the hell were you thinking?”

Her mother was dressed nicely, in a grey wool dress with a thin, shiny black belt around her waist. Elegant. She hadn’t put her shoes on and she was tilting back and forth on her heels in her black hose. “First off,” she said, “keep your voice down. There are people upstairs planning a nice evening for you and they don’t need to hear you swearing like a fusilier.”

“Fuck ’em,” said Hazel. “Where are my pills?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Emily pushed past her in the bathroom doorway, grabbing Hazel’s arm on the way in. Whiskey sloshed onto the cold tiles. She tugged her toward the toilet bowl. “There they are,” Emily said, lifting the lid. “They’re down there somewhere. If you can’t find one, maybe you should just lap the water. You might as well, with the mess you’re making of yourself.”

Hazel saw something on the floor behind the toilet, and shook herself loose of her mother’s grip and leaned forward to close the toilet lid. She sat down on it, straddling the toilet tank, and put the glass of whiskey down on the floor as she felt around behind. She was sure she’d seen an escapee, a pill that had bounced off the toilet rim and rolled onto the floor. Her finger grazed it, pushing it farther along the floor, but then she had it. She closed her hand around it and stood. Her mother was shaking her head ruefully.

“Look at you,” she said. “Look how small you are now.”

“Get out.”

“Give me the pill.”

“You’re not supposed to go cold turkey. Did you know that?” “Your daughter’s here,” Emily said. “You want her to see you like this? I can call her down right now.”

“You’re lying.”

Emily turned her head toward the door. “Martha!” There was nothing for a second, but then they heard footsteps coming down.

“Jesus Christ,” said Hazel, hanging her head. “It’s my birthday. This is what you do to me on my birthday?”

“For you,” said Emily. “Not to you. Now give me that pill.”

“Can I come in?” Martha was standing just inside the apartment. “Mum?”

Emily took a step toward Hazel, a careful step, like she was approaching a mad dog, and she put her hand out. “You’re an addict, Hazel. Now give me that pill.”

She turned her fist over into her mother’s hand and opened it. The pill fell out silently into Emily’s palm. Emily looked at it and then, to Hazel’s surprise, her mother popped it into her mouth. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s a Tylenol,” said Emily. “After all this nonsense, I need one. Now go say hello to your daughter.”

But Martha had crept slowly into the room and she was already standing in the doorway. “Mum?”

“Sweetie,” said Hazel, going to take her child in her arms. She tried to ignore the nausea roiling inside her. “What a wonderful surprise.”

She did her best to behave. Glynnis had made duck breast with a tart raspberry sauce that made Hazel’s stomach flip when she smelled it, but once she started eating, her gut settled down. It was, frankly, one of the most delicious things she’d ever eaten. And Andrew made a serious toast, one without a single euphemism in it, wishing her a year of renewal and happiness, a year of closeness with those she loved, and success in her work, and the entire time, Glynnis had sat beside her new husband with her glass raised, beaming at Hazel. Was she happy because she knew with Hazel back to work she’d be out of her house soon, the devil in her basement? Or was she – this strange, strange woman – genuinely happy to see Hazel up and about, despite the fact that only six days ago, she’d caught her husband feeding her spare ribs in the bath? Nothing had ever come of that, Emily had been right, no angry words, no delayed consequences. It really had been, in Glynnis’s eyes, an instance of her husband “caring for another human being.” It wasn’t right. It should have blown up in all their faces. Is that what Hazel had wanted? Maybe. But in that, she had failed as well.

Martha sent her mother shy looks of love and sadness from the other side of the table. They hadn’t seen each other since February, when Hazel had felt well enough to go down to Toronto for an afternoon and they’d had coffee. Their meetings didn’t always end well. The undercurrent of Hazel’s worries about the girl infected a lot of what she said, and Martha heard her mother’s criticisms of her life in everything. Hazel could not offer to pay for Martha’s lattes anymore when they met because such a gesture – no matter how natural it might have been for a mother to buy her daughter a cup of coffee – Martha saw as a judgment on her joblessness, her failure to choose a path and stay on it, her eternal singleness, her at-least-once-yearly need to be bailed out of some mess. All of this in a three-dollar cup of coffee. When Martha had been in her late twenties, Hazel and Andrew had talked about it all as a phase – she was young; she would find her way; this generation started everything later; she’d be sorted out by the time she was thirty. Then, after the breakup, Hazel excused her daughter’s rootlessness as a reaction to what was happening to her parents. But now she was thirty-three, and there was no sign of her waking up. What was going to happen? Would she find someone to share her life with, who would shoulder part of the burden that loving this girl entailed? What if she or Andrew died? What if Martha became dependent on her sister? Would she ever be able to stop worrying about this child?

And yet, here she was, her thin white skin shimmering in front of the candles (although not the special candles), and that wan, loving smile on her face. How could she not want to save her, this gorgeous, lost child? Hazel reached across the tabletop and took one of Martha’s hands in hers. “This is the best birthday present I’ve gotten so far.” She was, perhaps, now a little drunk on wine and whiskey, but Martha still smiled broadly at her and accepted the compliment. “Thank you for coming.”

“Happy birthday, Mum.”

“Another toast,” said Andrew, standing. They all raised their glasses again. “To family,” he said, and again, Glynnis was beaming that bright, terrifying gaze of pure joy at her. But she drank and the clocks struck ten and she was drunk.

They shooed her out of the kitchen with a cup of camomile tea, and Martha beckoned her into the sitting room, near the door. “Your birthday’s not over yet,” she said. They went down the hallway together and Hazel saw the glass table in the front room was mounded with a small pile of gifts. They sat down together on the couch. “Mine first,” said Martha, passing Hazel a limp, wrapped package. She hefted it in her hands; it was a blouse or a blanket or something like that. “It’s a hat,” said Hazel.

“So close.”

She unwrapped it. It was a handmade case for a throw pillow, a needlepoint that was a painstaking copy of a photograph from Martha’s childhood, of herself at the age of three on her mother’s shoulders. It amazed Hazel and she held it in her lap, staring at it. “My god, Martha. This is beautiful, just beautiful.” She leaned across the couch and held her tightly. “You made this?”

“You didn’t know I could needlepoint, did you?” Her face was bright with joy. “Well, I just learned. And it’s not easy. I pulled that apart three times before I got it done.”

“It must have taken you months.”

“I calculated it took about two hundred hours,” said Martha. “I figure if I wanted to sell that thing and make minimum wage I’d have to charge, like, twenty-three hundred for it.”

Hazel laughed, but she was already cancelling the things she wanted to say that she knew would be translated in Martha’s head into something dark. It was hard to think straight, with the J &B in her and the wine, and the withdrawal symptoms, which had begun to make her sweat, like she was running a fever. But she had to be careful. Any comments on how much free time her daughter had, the fact that the gift had been made, not bought, anything around the idea that maybe this newfound talent was a “calling,” reference to the fact that Hazel would have to buy the pillow to put in the case herself, anything, to be sure, that wasn’t unalloyed gratitude. “Amazing,” she said. “You’re amazing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You surprise me.”

“In a good way?”

There it was, thought Hazel, she’d already gone through the bad door without realizing it. But she was drunk enough to shimmy back over the threshold. “If you hadn’t shown up here tonight, sweetie, this day would have had no saving graces. You’re a miracle.”

Martha hesitated, and then she allowed the compliment with a warm smile. “And you’re drunk.”

“Let’s open the rest of these impersonal, pointless gifts, shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

Martha lined them up, the smaller gifts in front, the larger ones behind. Hazel was touched to see her mother’s handwriting on one of the envelopes as well as Andrew’s. There were five more gifts in total. She reached for one of them, but then pulled her hand back, feeling a chill run up her spine. “Maybe we should wait for the others?”

“Sure,” said her daughter. They sat silently for a minute, Hazel staring at the wrapped boxes. “What was all the shouting about earlier?” said Martha quietly.

“Huh?” said Hazel.

“I heard some shouting.”

“Oh… it was just a rough day.”

“It’s hard being in this situation, huh? Living here. With Dad and Glynnis.”

“It’s temporary, honey.” She recognized the handwriting on all of the cards, she thought.

“Is that what you were upset about?”

“It’s okay,” said Hazel.

“Are you listening to me?”

She turned sharply to Martha. “Sorry, sweetie. Honestly, you don’t have to worry. Today had nothing to do with you.”

“Why do you think I’d be concerned only if it had something to do with me?”

“I don’t…” She got up from the couch, with difficulty, and wiped her hands on her slacks. “Are all these gifts from you and Nanna and the, um, Pedersens?”

“Mum, why don’t you want to talk to me?”

Hazel looked down at her daughter. It was getting hard to think straight. It felt like her brain was bumping around inside her head. Pay attention, she told herself. “I do. You know… recovering from surgery has been hard. Going back to work has been hard. And it was a rough sixty-second birthday. But it’s better now.”

“Nanna is worried about you.”

“I know, but I promise you,” Hazel said, looking Martha in the eye, “that everything is okay and that everything is going to be okay.”

“Good,” said Martha.

Emily emerged from the kitchen and started down the hall. “You ready for us?”

“Actually… Mum, if you wouldn’t mind, could you pass me the phone?”

Emily gave her a look and then retreated to the kitchen and came back with the portable. “You want to invite someone else over?”

“Sort of,” she said, and she dialled the number of the station house. Wilton answered. “Spencer? Who’s on shift tonight?” She listened. “Will you ask MacDonald to put down what he’s doing and come over here, please?”

“What?” said Emily.

Hazel cupped the phone. “I’ll explain in a second.” She put the phone back to her ear. “Yeah, as soon as he can.”

She passed the phone back to her mother. Andrew and Glynnis were standing in the hallway behind her now. Andrew was drying a wineglass. “What’s going on?”

“We had a bit of a scare at the detachment on Tuesday. A gift that we weren’t expecting.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t think you want to know,” she said.

Martha had stepped away from the sitting room and was standing in the hallway behind her mother. She quietly took Hazel’s hand. “There’s nothing to worry about,” Hazel said. “Sean MacDonald is a trained scene-of-crime officer and he’ll know what to do.”

“Scene of crime?” Emily said, rather incredulously.

“It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Is he going to blow up your presents or something?” Martha asked.

Hazel squeezed her hand. “No. But he’ll tell us if I can open them.”

Glynnis made some more camomile tea while they waited, and they sat in the kitchen together, stiffly. “Most of that stuff in there is from us,” Andrew said. “And the rest is from people you know. The Chandlers came by with something. Your deputy dropped a couple of things off.”

“You saw him? Wingate?”

“I did,” said Glynnis.

“And he said the gifts were from him?”

“He said they were from your staff. Nothing was ticking, as far as I can tell,” she said.

“Well, I still think we should wait for MacDonald.”

“Never a dull moment,” said Andrew.

The sergeant arrived ten minutes later, and she took him aside and explained her concerns. He nodded seriously. He held his kit bag up. “I got a chemical swiper thing in here,” he said. “And some litmus strips.”

“You’re going to test whether my gifts are too acidic, Sean?”

“Maybe.”

“Just get to it. Don’t blow up the house.”

He vanished into the sitting room, and she stood apart from the others, waiting. She couldn’t untense her hands. After a few minutes, she took a couple more steps backward down the hall. Glynnis poked her head out of the kitchen. “You want us to wait outside?”

“Or in Fort Leonard, maybe?” called Andrew.

“I’m sorry, okay? Just better safe than…”

“Than what?” asked Glynnis.

“Never mind.”

MacDonald whistled while he went over the packages. Five minutes turned into ten. Finally, he was done and he emerged into the hallway.

“No strange lumps, no wires sticking out, no oilstains, nothing stinky or rattly. No animals or bodily fluids. I’d say you’re all clear. Unless you don’t like fifteen-year-old Glenfarclas.”

“What?”

“Ray Greene sent you a nice bottle.”

She frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

“I had to open the packages. But I resealed them. Nice to get something from your old deputy, huh? No hard feelings.”

“All right, thank you, Sean. You can go now.”

He smiled at her – he loved doing SOCO stuff and the opportunity so rarely came up – and she told him to wait a minute. She went back into the kitchen and sliced him a thick piece of the vanilla cake Glynnis had made, and put it on a plate and brought it back to him. “Just leave the plate with Melanie when you’re done.”

“Should I frisk it first?”

“Sure, you do that.”

She asked Martha to help her bring the gifts downstairs. Knowing that there was something from Ray had put her off opening the presents more than the possibility of finding a body part or a bomb had. Some nerve: not a word for months, and then a birthday present. It pissed her off.

Martha put the gifts on the table downstairs and helped her mother arrange the room. It was still a mess from earlier. When she was done, she said she’d leave her alone and maybe see her in the morning. Then she stood at the door to the stairs, looking forlorn and lost.

“What is it, honey? Why the faraway look?”

Martha shook her head instead of speaking, a worrisome prelude to tears. But she settled herself down and said, “That was weird, huh?”

“Yeah. A little. That why you’re upset?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t like to think of you being in danger.”

“Aw, sweetie, that’s so nice of you. But don’t you get all -”

“And… well, also… it’s just… look at all the people who care about you. Who love you. Those guys upstairs, and that guy coming from the police station to make sure you’re safe. All these people sending you gifts.”

“Maybe they’re just all afraid of me. They’re appeasing me.”

“I know,” Martha said distractedly. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what, sweetie?”

Martha leaned against the wall beside the door. The whole room was between them. “You have so many people in your life. So does Dad. You’re both just… naturally likeable. I wish I had that talent.”

“No one sees themselves the way others see them,” Hazel said. “You could never see yourself the way I do. And for your information, I don’t feel that loveable myself.”

“Well, obviously, other people disagree.”

“Maybe you just need to get out and be around people more, hon. You can’t have people in your life if you’re hiding from them.”

Martha nodded, her tongue stiff against the inside of her upper lip. Hazel had known it was the wrong thing to say the instant it was out of her mouth. Her daughter stood up straight against the wall. “So I’m living under a rock? What do you know about how I spend my time?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you -”

“I go to the gym, I go out with friends, I go to the library. You think Toronto is the kind of place you strike up conversations with people on the street? And then they come home for a cup of Lemon Zinger and you’re BFFs?”

“You’re what?”

“Never mind.” She turned and opened the door sharply. Hazel crossed the room quickly and put her hand on her daughter’s.

“Hey – wait… I’m sorry, Martha. Honestly. I hate saying the wrong thing. I only want you to be happy and feel loved.”

“I know,” said Martha, quietly. She was already embarrassed that she’d shown her vulnerability to her mother. She was always see-sawing back and forth between appearing strong and being helpless. She hated it. “I should let you get some rest.” She still hadn’t looked her mother in the eye.

“Do you accept my apology?”

“I do,” said Martha.

“Will I see you in the morning?”

“Yeah.”

She let her go.

When the door closed, Hazel went over to the couch and sat down. She pulled the gift that had to be the bottle over toward herself and opened the card attached to it. The card said We can still raise a glass, right? Hope this is still your brand. Ray. She felt less pissed off after reading the card, but the discomfort remained.

Her mother had bought her a beautiful blouse; Glynnis and Andrew a matching pair of slacks. The gift from Wingate was a copy of Great Expectations. Sweet man. She’d never read Dickens. Nor had she ever had great expectations – it was nice that he thought it still possible.

The final gift was from Robert and Gail Chandler, a long, purple silk scarf. It was gorgeous. She wrapped it around her neck and then pulled Greene’s bottle toward herself and stared at it a long time.

It had been more than thirty-six hours since her last Percocet and her nerves had been crying out for solace ever since. But the adrenaline that had been roaring through her since the visit to Willan had done some of the work she’d counted on the pill to do. To painkill, yes, but also to numb, to reduce the noise in her head. After her birthday evening, though, she could feel the noise returning. The burn in her guts, the dizziness, the shakes. She recalled the small object wrapped in tinfoil that she’d had in her pants pocket yesterday. She went to the closet and found it still in the pocket of the black slacks she’d worn yesterday. She unwrapped the pill and held it in her fingers. How could something that small take such a hold of a person? She lifted it to her mouth and touched her tongue to it. It was bitter, like aspirin, and she thought she could feel it sizzling. In a day or two, it would begin to get easier: she believed this now. She was on the dividing line between one life and another and she need do nothing to cross it; the line was coming toward her. On the other side of it was a manageable pain, a clearer head, maybe even her own pillow and sheets. And, more importantly, she was going to need a clear head from here on in. There was a chance to save the man in the video; a chance to save “her,” whoever she was.

She went into the bathroom and flushed the pill down the toilet. It turned in smaller and smaller circles, arrowing in on something like it was supposed to do in the body, and then it was gone into the grey tube in the middle of the bowl as if down a throat and she pictured it streaming end over end into the sewer. From one bottomless place to another. It was progress.