The Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 9

Howling winds and horizontally blowing snow met our plane when it landed in Regina Sunday night. Noah was there to pick up Delia, but he had parked their car at our house and driven ours to a waiting area outside to minimize the distance Zack had to push his chair. I was grateful for that and, as always, for the fact that we lived so close to the airport.

The kids had shovelled the driveway, so the pavement to the garage was clear. Declan Hunter’s Acura was parked out front; so was Pete’s old beater. When we walked into the kitchen, the phone was ringing, and jazz that was live, loud, and surprisingly solid was soaring in the family room. The dogs heard us and bounded into the kitchen. Pantera leaped on Zack, knocking over his wheelchair. Willie gave me a cursory sniff and slunk away, sulking because I’d abandoned him. In an hour he would forget my betrayal and assume his habitual place by my side. We were home.

Pete helped Zack back into his chair and went out to get our bags, and Zack and I headed to the family room. Taylor was sitting cross-legged on the couch with her sketchbook, Bruce and Benny curled up beside her, and Declan and his trio were wailing. When they spotted us, the music stopped, and Taylor jumped to her feet. “I didn’t hear you,” she said. “I’m sorry. We could have helped bring in your stuff.” She hugged us both and waved towards the musicians. “Declan’s band came over to jam. There was nobody here but Pete, and he didn’t mind.”

Declan put down his guitar and moved close to Taylor. His stance was protective. If she was in trouble with her parents, he was beside her – gold-star behaviour in my books. “I’m sorry if this is a problem,” he said.

Zack grinned. “My only problem is that you’re not inviting me to sit in.”

“Consider yourself in,” Declan said. He gestured towards the trumpet player, an intense young man with a shaved head. “This is Nigel Fleming.”

“I recognize you from the symphony,” Zack said. “Nice to meet you.”

Declan pointed to the drummer. “And this is Natty-bedhead.” Natty greeted us with a lick on the drums and a dazzling smile. “You really want to sit in?” he asked Zack.

“One number,” Zack said.

“Blues in F,” Declan said, picking up his guitar.

Zack moved over to the Steinway. He had slept during most of the flight to Regina. He’d awakened feeling tired, but I could see the life come back into him as he began to play. After six or seven minutes, I could also see the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beading on his forehead. When the music faded, I stepped in.

“That was terrific,” I said. “But the piano player needs to hit the sack. He came home with the flu.”

Surprisingly, Zack didn’t resist. He called out a casual “later” to the band and wheeled towards the hall that led to our bedroom. The boys took this as a cue to call it a day and had just begun packing up their instruments when Declan’s cell rang. He waved as we left, but his face was grave.

Zack was undressing and I was turning down the bed when there was a knock on our bedroom door. Declan and Taylor were there, hands linked.

Our daughter spoke first. “Dad, I know you’re feeling rotten, but we need help. Declan’s mother’s in trouble.”

Declan and Taylor exchanged a quick look. It was clear they had decided beforehand on how they would present this problem, and it was Declan’s turn to take the lead. His tone was matter-of-fact. “My mother thinks she hit someone with her car.” Declan lowered his gaze. “She’s been drinking, so who knows what really happened.”

Zack started rebuttoning his shirt. “Is she at the police station?”

“She says she’s at home.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zack said. “Not a hit-and-run?”

Declan’s laugh was short and derisive. “No, she never does anything that normal. Apparently, my mother brought the man she hit home with her. I guess he’s sitting in the living room. My dad’s in Houston. I was going to call Noah Wainberg. He spends a lot of time with my mother, but Taylor thinks we need you.”

“Taylor’s right,” Zack said, and he looked hard at me. The weather was wretched, he was sick, and our city was full of lawyers who, in that stunning phrase from Deuteronomy, would “circumcise their hearts” to handle a file for Leland Hunter. Zack knew all this, and none of it mattered. He wanted the case.

“At least let me drive you,” I said.

Zack hacked. “Thank you, Ms. Shreve. I could use help tonight. Okay, Declan, why don’t you go through your mother’s story again? We don’t want to be met with any surprises. The Boy Scouts are right about being prepared.”

We were committed. Taylor ran down the hall and returned with Declan’s jacket and her own. Declan took his jacket, but shook his head when Taylor started to put on hers.

“I should be there,” she said.

“No,” Declan said. “You shouldn’t. My mother would never forgive you if you saw her when she was drunk.”

The insight was both mature and poignant. Declan might have appeared to be fortune’s favourite, but being the only child of Leland and Louise Hunter brought its own burdens. Declan touched Taylor’s arm. “I’ll call you,” he said. He turned to Zack. “You know where we live. I’ll meet you there.”

The Hunters’ house was a new and massive structure in a neighbourhood of other new and massive structures. The neighbourhood was a favourite of professionals and executives who were on second or third marriages to much younger women. With their elaborate topiary, lacquered doors, great rooms, and sparkling chandeliers, the houses had all the artful surgery, high gloss, and fragile beauty of their young mistresses. Like them, the houses seemed temporary – not places for the long haul.

The scene we walked in on was surreal. A knapsack and a battered sign with the words HOME FOR CHRISTMAS hand-lettered on cardboard had been tossed on the marble floor in the entranceway. In the great room, a man in an army surplus camouflage jacket, waterproof pants, and steel-toed boots slumped on a loveseat upholstered in silver silk. Louise sat facing him on the twin of the loveseat. Between them was a rectangular glass table that held a bucket of ice and a bottle of Grey Goose. Louise and the man both had drinks in hand. They looked like a couple on the world’s most mismatched blind date.

When we came in, the man bolted up and shot an accusing look at Louise. “That’s Zack Shreve. I’ve seen him on the news. You didn’t say anything about a lawyer. You just said your kid was coming.”

Zack took control. “Relax. Declan happened to be at our home visiting, so my wife and I decided to drop by to see Louise. Just obeying an impulse. Declan, why don’t you sit with your mother’s guest. Mr…?”

“Usher. Paul Usher.” Louise’s visitor was surly but he wasn’t stupid. Zack hadn’t thrown him out. Paul Usher resumed his seat, no longer looking like a man on the defensive. He had sniffed money.

Zack nodded pleasantly. “Mr. Usher. I’ve seen you and your sign many times on the traffic island at College and Albert. I pass by you on my way to the office. You’re hoping to get home for Christmas – a commendable wish – and I think if we all act wisely, your wish may be granted. Now, please excuse us. Declan will refresh your drink while my wife and I chat with our hostess.”

Declan knew how to pick up a cue, and long practice had taught him how to pour drinks.

Louise’s step was unsteady as she led us down the hall, but she didn’t spill a drop of her vodka. The overhead light was blazing in the study; Louise doused the light, turned on a floor lamp that cast a gentler glow, and lowered herself carefully onto a creamy leather chair by the window. I sat in the chair that faced it. Zack wheeled in close to Louise. “This must be a nightmare for you,” he said.

Zack wasn’t going to condemn her, and Louise’s relief was palpable. She put her drink on the end table and clasped her hands on her lap like an obedient child. “There seems to be no end to my stupidity,” she said.

Zack moved closer. “We all have nights we wish we could redo. Let’s see what we can do to salvage this one. Now, tell me exactly what happened. Take your time, but I need to know everything.”

“I spent the afternoon at my studio practising,” Louise said. “Leland has promised to drop by Christmas morning, and I planned to surprise him by playing the Prelude in C from The Well-Tempered Clavier. Our first Christmas together I played him the entire work, and he was charmed. Of course, that was in another lifetime. I’ll never be that good again, but the Prelude in C is so easy that it’s a study piece for students. I thought there was a chance I could carry it off.”

She raised her drink to her lips, hesitated, and then replaced the glass on the small inlaid table beside her. “I’ve been practising every day. It’s been going well, but today I was having problems with my hands. They were shaking. I thought one drink would steady me.” Louise looked longingly at the tumbler on the little table, but she didn’t touch it. “The rule is no drinking in the studio.”

“Is that your own rule?” Zack asked, and his voice, roughened by his cold, was oddly intimate.

Louise shook her head. “It was Noah’s idea, as was the studio, but I agreed. He thought – we thought – I needed a place where I had to stay sober to do what mattered to me.”

When Louise didn’t continue, Zack touched her arm. “But today that didn’t work,” he said.

Louise’s face contorted with self-loathing. “The first drink helped, but of course for me there’s no such thing as one drink.”

“It’s a lonely battle, isn’t it?” Zack said.

Louise had been skittish, waiting for the whip of opprobrium. When it didn’t come, she relaxed. I remembered Noah commenting once on Zack’s tenderness with his clients. “He’s like the Horse Whisperer with them. It’s fascinating to watch. No matter what they’ve done, he somehow convinces them he understands, that he’s able to see the world through their eyes. They stop being afraid and they start trusting him. That’s the first step to a successful defence.”

By anyone’s criteria, Louise Hunter’s behaviour during the past ninety minutes had been lunacy, but her account was straightforward and unapologetic. She trusted Zack to get her through. “I was very drunk when I left the studio. Actually, I’m still drunk.” She flexed her hands and stared at them. “Sadly, events are starting to come back to me. The old couple who live in the other apartment on my floor were getting off the elevator when I was getting on. They were carrying groceries and I bumped his arm, knocked the bag out of his hand. All these grapefruit rolled out. What would old people need with all those grapefruit? I started to get down on my knees to help, but the old man stopped me. He has Alzheimer’s but he has moments of clarity. He said, ‘You’ve been drinking. If you get down, you won’t be able to get back up.’ He was right, so I got in the elevator and went out back to the parking lot. I was driving very slowly and very carefully. I didn’t want to do anything… ” Louise narrowed her eyes, searching for the word. “Irretrievable,” she said finally. “I didn’t want to do anything irretrievable. I guess I was driving too slowly because I thought I saw a police car starting to follow me.”

“But you do have your licence back, don’t you?” Zack said. “You only lost it for six months and that was in the spring.”

“The May long weekend,” Louise said. “The Great Victoria Day DUI round-up. And I didn’t – I don’t – want to lose my licence again, so when I saw this man standing on the traffic island, I opened up my car door, jumped out, handed him the keys to the Mercedes, gave him my address, and told him to drive me home.” She tried a laugh. “You have to admire that kind of thinking. The folly of what I had done hit me when he followed me into the house.”

“Had you invited him in?” Zack asked. There was no censure in Zack’s voice.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d promised to pay him, but when I saw him standing in my living room I panicked. That’s when I went into the bathroom and called Declan.”

“And told him you’d been in an accident,” Zack said.

Louise appeared beaten. “It was the simplest explanation. I don’t remember hitting Mr. Usher, but he says I did, and I’ve been wrong before.”

“Whatever happened, calling for assistance was the right thing to do.” Zack’s voice was raspy. “Why don’t you go upstairs and relax. We’ll take it from here.”

Louise pushed herself to her feet. Her step was unsteady. She held out her arms. “What’s the matter with me?”

Zack shot me a supplicating glance. “Could you help Louise, Joanne? I’m going to need Declan.”

“Of course,” I said. I linked my arm through Louise’s and we headed for the front hall.

By the time we reached the bottom of their curved staircase, she was hanging on me. Louise Hunter was a small woman, but she was a dead weight, and the stairs were steep and slick. When we made it to the second floor, I stopped to catch my breath. Zack’s coughing jag echoed up the stairwell and I felt a stab of anger. I didn’t offer help as Louise wove her way down the shining parquet of her hallway. At the end of the hall, she turned and looked back at me. “I have to pee, and I don’t want to fall in the bathroom. You’ll have to help me.”

I did. I also helped her remove her makeup, brush her teeth and hair, and don a silky nightgown the same shade of champagne as the silk sheets that matched the walls of her huge and lonely bedroom. She refused to let me remove the platinum cuff bracelet I’d noticed when I’d met her at the Wainbergs, saying that it was a gift from her ex-husband and she never took it off. I thought about my own husband downstairs getting sicker by the moment as he attempted to extricate Louise from a morass of her own making and felt my gorge rise again.

When finally she was safely in bed for the night, I started out of the room.

“Your husband is much kinder than you,” she said.

“Agreed,” I said, without turning.

“At least have the decency to look at me when we’re talking,” she said.

I walked back to the acre of bed in which Louise lay, her thin, pale arms resting on the duvet, the platinum cuff bracelet gleaming dully in the light from the lamp on her bedside table.

“Why do you hate me?” she asked.

“I don’t hate you, Louise. I’ve just seen your act before – many, many times. My mother was an alcoholic. Now if there’s nothing else…?”

She waved me off. I turned and saw that Declan was standing in the doorway. When I walked past him, I squeezed his arm. “You heard that?” I asked.

He nodded. “Do you ever get over it?”

“No, but you do finally realize it’s not your fault.” I met his eyes. “Declan, call if you need me. I mean that.”

“Thanks,” he said. He shrugged. “Well, guess I’d better check on my mum.”

Zack was in the hall zipping his jacket when I went downstairs. “Declan found you?”

“He did. Louise’s needs have been met. Let’s get out of here.”

Zack took his gloves from his pocket. “I appreciate this, Jo.”

I zipped my coat. “So how did it go with Paul Usher?”

“A happy ending for Mr. Usher. Declan took him to the bus station, bought him a ticket to Kamloops, and gave him $1,000 spending money.”

“Kamloops seems like a pleasant place to recuperate from injuries,” I said.

“Funny thing about those injuries,” Zack said. “Declan tells me they disappeared the second Mr. Usher pocketed Louise’s cash.”

“You think he’ll be back for a second instalment?”

Zack shrugged. “Probably, but not tonight, and that’s all I care about. I’m bushed.” He opened the door and rolled out into the darkness.

While Zack was showering, I turned on our electric blanket. I would turn it off again before we settled for the night, because Zack’s paraplegia made him susceptible to unfelt injuries. Then I called Henry Chan. He had been Zack’s doctor when we met, and when my MD retired, Henry took on Taylor and me. I liked him. His wife, Gina Brown, was a nurse-practitioner, and together they had created an office that was both welcoming and efficient. The magazines in the reception room were current, the walls were bright with photos and drawings from kids, and the wait times were acceptable. Henry and Gina were a good team: easygoing and knowledgeable. They also lived two blocks from us, and we’d been involved in enough neighbourhood activities together for me to call their home that night without feeling guilty. When I heard Henry’s voice, I felt my pulse slow.

“I know you don’t make house calls,” I said, “but I was hoping you could drop by on your way to the office tomorrow. Zack has the flu. He has a temperature, his breathing is laboured, and he has a wicked cough. I’m doing the usual or trying to, but I’d like you to look at him.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow morning but, Joanne, if he gets worse in the night, take him to Emergency. The paraplegia complicates things. Zack doesn’t have the resistance an able-bodied person would have.”

“I like to think of him as indestructible,” I said.

Henry heard the fear in my voice, and he was reassuring. “Basically, Zack is very healthy, I just want you to take precautions because he’s one of the few guys I can consistently beat in poker.”

“That’s not the way he tells it,” I said.

Henry chuckled. “We’re all the heroes of our own epics. But let’s keep an eye on this. See you in the morning.”

Zack’s skin was pink from the shower when he came back into the bedroom. “You look better,” I said.

“I just need some sleep,” he said. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Henry Chan.”

Zack wheeled towards the bed. “So what did Henry want?”

“To see you.”

Zack cocked his head. “Professionally?”

“Yes,” I said, “but his profession, not yours. He’s coming over tomorrow morning to check you out.”

Zack transferred his body from his chair to the bed. “Is that strictly necessary?”

“I guess we’ll know tomorrow,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

He glanced at his nightstand. I’d assembled the usual arsenal people gather to fight the flu: Aspirin, a decongestant and antihistamine, a cough suppressant, a Thermos of water, a box of tissues – and something else – a tube of Polysporin. “Looks like you’ve anticipated my every need,” he said.

“I aim to please,” I said. I picked up the Polysporin. “You have a couple of pressure sores on your back. Let me rub a little of this on them. We don’t want to take any chances.” When I was finished, I helped Zack get comfortable. “Wake me up in the night if you need anything.”

“You coming to bed now?”

“I’d better let the dogs out one more time, but once that’s done, I’m on my way. It’s been a long day.”

When I finally slid between the sheets, I moved close to kiss Zack good night. He turned his face away so that all I managed was a cheek peck. “You don’t want to get this,” he said.

“You’re right, I don’t,” I said, “but as soon as you start feeling better, I want one of those kisses that Kevin Costner talked about in Bull Durham - a long, slow, deep, soft, wet one that lasts three days.”

I’d just come back from my morning run with the dogs when Henry Chan arrived. He turned down my offer of coffee and went straight in to see Zack. He stayed with Zack long enough to make me fretful, and when he came out he seemed preoccupied. He went to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, then took a prescription pad from his briefcase, leaned against the counter, and began writing. “This one should help with the congestion,” he said. He tore off the first prescription and handed it to me. “You must have noticed the pressure sores,” he added.

“Last night I put Polysporin on them,” I said.

Henry nodded. “We may need something a little more heavy-duty.” He leaned over his pad and began writing again. “Every four hours for this one,” he said. Then he wrote out a third prescription. “Zack’s throat is inflamed and there’s swelling in the lymph nodes, but this should do the trick. I’ll check in on my way to the hospital tomorrow morning.” He picked up the winter jacket he’d flung on the kitchen chair when he came in and began readying himself to leave. “Keep an eye on him. If you don’t think this is moving in the right direction, call Gina. Apart from that, just keep on doing what you’re doing.” He zipped his jacket, pulled on his toque and gloves, and headed for the door.

“Henry… ” My throat tightened. I couldn’t say anything more. For the first time that morning he really looked at me, and he saw how frightened I was.

He stopped. “Gina always gives me hell for not paying enough attention to the spouses. I apologize, Joanne, I have a long day ahead, and my mind was on what I was going to do next. I know you love Zack, and barring something unforeseen, he’ll get through this with flying colours. It’s just that there are no small illnesses for paraplegics, and from what Zack said, he let this one get away from him. The trip to Ontario, and then going out again last night.”

“I should have stopped him.”

Henry’s smile was gentle. “You think you could have?”

“No.”

“If it’s any consolation, being married to you has added years to Zack’s life.”

“How many years?” I said.

Henry met my gaze. “Nobody can answer that, but Zack is no longer living like an eighteen-year-old kid with a death wish. He’s cut down on the booze and gambling, he’s monogamous, and he tells me he no longer drives like a maniac.”

“I wish he’d cut back on his workload,” I said.

“So do I,” Henry said. “And Gina wishes I’d cut back on mine. But leopards can’t change their spots. We are as we are.”

It was too early to take the prescriptions to be filled at our druggist in River Heights, so I poured a glass of orange juice and went into the bedroom.

Zack was lying on his back. His BlackBerry was within easy reach on his nightstand, but he wasn’t thumbing it – not a good sign.

When he heard me come in, he turned his head towards me. “Did Henry tell you you’re an alarmist?”

I sat on the bed beside him. “Do you think I’d tell you if he had?” I said. “He gave me some prescriptions to get filled and, on my own initiative, I’ve decided to make chicken soup – the real kind, with feet in it.”

“Actually, that sounds pretty good.”

“You’re also confined to quarters for the foreseeable future.”

Zack reached out and took my hand. “As long as you’re here, I can live with that.”

“I’m here,” I said. “I’m going to have to call about a dozen people and tell them we can’t make their Christmas parties this week. We had two parties tonight alone – and it’s only Monday.”

“Disappointed?”

“Are you kidding? I’m thanking my lucky stars. No pantyhose to struggle into; no crab dip with a dubious heritage; no eggnog that’s been sitting out too long; no trotting out the conversational gambit I picked up forty years ago from Growing Up and Liking It.”

“What’s Growing Up and Liking it?”

“It’s a booklet girls used to send away for when they got their first period. It was distributed by a company that produced sanitary napkins and it was filled with useful advice about menstruation and dating.”

“Pretty much covered the gamut, huh?”

“Pretty much. I’ve forgotten most of the advice except that when a girl is on a date she should never tell a boy about her interests; she should always just ask him about his interests.”

“Did it work?”

I held out my left hand and pointed to my wedding ring. “Worked for me.” I kissed his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

When I went back to the kitchen, Taylor was leaning over the sink eating her new favourite breakfast: a crumpet dripping with butter.

“Eating over the sink gives you warts,” I said.

She swallowed. “This is worth it.” She wiped the glisten off her chin. “Hey, was somebody here earlier or was I dreaming?”

“You weren’t dreaming,” I said. “Henry Chan came over to check out your dad.”

The fun went out of Taylor’s face. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“It’s just the flu,” I said. “But being in a wheelchair complicates things, so I worry – you know me.”

She nodded, finished her crumpet, and rinsed her hands. “Can I go see him?”

“Of course,” I said. “Seeing you always makes him happy.”

“I hate it when anybody in this family gets sick,” Taylor said. “It scares me.”

“Me too,” I said. “Now you’d better get a move on. Only two more days of school before the holidays. You don’t want to be late.”

She glanced at her watch. “Whoops. Can I borrow $5.00 please? We’re supposed to chip in for flowers for Ms. Perdue. She broke her foot doing her improv routine during chapel Friday.” Taylor brightened. “But before she broke her foot, she raised $231 for the Christmas fund.”

“There’s always a silver lining,” I said.

My purse was on the telephone table, and I found a five-dollar bill in my wallet. When Taylor came back from seeing Zack, I handed her the money. She gave me a quick hug, and I breathed in the scent of rosemary from the organic shampoo she favoured this month.

“I told Dad I love him,” she said. “I love you, too, Jo.”

For the hundredth time, I noticed – and was angry at myself for noticing – that Zack, who had been in Taylor’s life for two years, was “Dad” and that I, who had been in her life for ten years, was still, except for an occasional slip, “Jo.” I knew my daughter loved me as deeply as I loved her, but somewhere deep in Taylor’s psyche, the word mother still meant Sally.

I took the Christmas card Alwyn had given me from my purse, and looked again at the picture inside the holiday frame. For her entire life Abby had enjoyed a close and loving relationship with the man and woman she believed were her biological parents. Discovering the truth, that her birth mother was a stranger and that her father was a question mark, would have been a shock, but no matter how I looked at it, I could not convince myself that the revelation would have caused Abby to give away her child.

I was still, as my grandmother would have said, “in a brown study,” when Myra Brokaw called. I had problems of my own, but I sat down and prepared to hear her out. With luck and care, Zack would be his old self in a week or so; Myra’s husband would never recover.

“I know it’s early,” she said. “But I wanted to plead my case one more time before you made a final decision about Theo’s role in your program about the Supreme Court.”

“Myra, it’s not my program, and I don’t make the decisions. NationTV decides whether or not a particular show is worth doing, and if they green-light the show, my friend Jill Oziowy produces it. My connection is tangential. The series, such as it is, came out of an idea I had about making some of the institutions that affect our lives more understandable to the general public. I’ve done some research and some writing, but that’s the extent of my involvement. I suggested Justice Brokaw because he was from Saskatchewan, and I’d read in the paper that he was retiring here. I thought explaining the workings of the Court to a lay audience might be an interesting project for both of us, but it was just an idea. Nothing was set in stone.”

“But it’s a fine idea,” Myra said and her voice was fervent. “The challenge is how best to bring the idea to life. My suggestion that an actor read from Theo’s judgments simply won’t work. For television, you need to involve the eye. And we can do that, Joanne.”

When I didn’t ask how we could involve the eye, Myra sensed my interest waning and hurried on. “Whenever Theo was interviewed for television, I made certain we got a copy of the tape, so I have all his public utterances, neatly catalogued. And even better, I filmed him frequently myself. He had such a brilliant legal mind. I knew I was part of something significant that could not be lost. I had an obligation.”

“Myra, I don’t think… ”

“Joanne, please just look at the films. They’re family films, of course. They show the man himself, but they offer so much more. Theo sitting on the dock at our cottage talking about how knowledge of art and literature places the law into context. And footage of him wandering the corridors of the Court at night alone, pondering a judgment. And he did this lovely thing – every year, he and his students went skating on the Rideau Canal. He’s a fine skater and I have film of that, and there’s always an inspiring sequence at the end where Theo and his students sit on a bench by the canal drinking cocoa, and Theo explains how the law is like skating – push, glide, push, glide. A time for assertion, a time for reflection. Such a precise metaphor. I want people to remember him.”

“People do remember him, Myra,” I said. “When we were first contemplating this show, I talked to people in the legal community – not just here in Saskatchewan but throughout Canada. They hold Theo in very high regard. They know he was a fine jurist and scholar.”

“So they’ve already written his eulogy,” Myra said, and her laugh was bitter. “Robert Frost was right. ‘No memory of having starred/Atones for later disregard,/Or keeps the end from being hard.’ ”

Her pain was as palpable as her love for her husband.