The Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 2

Fifteen minutes later, the school, and reportedly most of the city, was still without light. A spirit of cheerful anarchy had seized the crowd. Plunged into darkness in the company of friends and cellphones, the students, their voices shakily arrogant, split the silence with what Walt Whitman described as the barbaric yawps of the young. The adults were resigned. Blizzards and blackouts are part of a Saskatchewan winter. Everyone knows that, sooner or later, blizzards stop; power returns; streets are lit; traffic lights function – and life goes on.

Enjoying the moment was a sensible option, but not for Zack and me. As we waited by the door through which the baby’s mother vanished, we were isolated by a growing fear and frustration. Zack was accustomed to deciding on an outcome and making it happen, but that afternoon, nothing was breaking his way. He couldn’t get either Delia or Noah on the phone and Police Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz’s private voicemail told him she would call when time permitted.

The room was growing noticeably cooler. I zipped up the baby’s snowsuit, put his toque back on him, then wrapped him in the blanket that had been in the baby seat. Swaddled and held close, he fell asleep on my shoulder.

“One possibility, and it’s chilling, is postpartum psychosis.” Zack spoke softly as if to protect the child in my arms from hearing what he was about to say. “I had a client who heard voices telling her she had to kill her baby. She tried to get help, but everyone told her the ‘baby blues’ were common, and the feelings would pass. The voices became more and more insistent, so finally she threw her baby off the Albert Street Bridge.”

My heart clenched. “What happened to the mother?”

“She was arrested. Arrangements were made for her to undergo psychological assessment, and she was released. She walked out of court, drove home, and hanged herself.”

“Do you think this baby’s mother is suicidal? When she gave the baby to Isobel, all she said was ‘I couldn’t do it.’ That might just mean she felt she couldn’t raise her son, so she was giving him to someone who could.”

“Possibly,” Zack said, “but I don’t buy it. Mothers who abandon their newborns in the bathroom at Walmart or leave them in hospitals or fire stations are usually young and poor. When I was taking pictures of the girls I caught a glimpse of this boy’s mother. She wasn’t a kid, and she didn’t look poor.”

The penny dropped. “Zack, take out your camera,” I said. “She’ll be in those pictures.”

The first photo was a dud. With the breathtaking symbolism of the quotidian, the baby’s mother was heading through the door marked EXIT, her back to the camera. Zack scrolled to the previous picture. In this one the mother was handing the baby seat to Isobel. Her coat collar was turned up, and her dark hair had fallen over her face. Zack pushed the zoom button, isolating the woman’s profile. She’d been moving, and the photo was blurred. He flicked to the first picture he’d taken, and when he saw it, he breathed a single word: “Bingo.” Then he handed the camera to me.

Isobel had been right. The woman in the picture was an uncanny projection of what she, herself, would look like as an adult.

Zack was on another track. “She looks like Dee when we were in law school.” He slipped the camera back in his pocket, took out his BlackBerry, and tried three numbers in rapid succession. “Yet again, no Debbie. No Delia. No Noah. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, my love, but it is getting cold in here.”

On cue, the baby in my arms began to cry lustily.

“Fuck it. I’m sick of waiting,” Zack said. “I’m going to text Taylor and tell her to round up Izzy and Gracie. Then we’re going to take this boy down to Regina General. They have auxiliary power so they’ll be able to keep him warm and fed until somebody figures out what to do next.”

I kissed the baby’s head. “Sound good to you, bud?”

“You’re liking that little guy, aren’t you?” Zack said.

“Baby lust,” I said. “Our littlest granddaughter is already four. It’s been a while since we had a baby in the family.”

“I don’t believe this is the last we’ll see of this one.”

“Zack, what do you think is going on?”

He sighed. “I wish I knew. All I know is this was not a random act. The mother said her son belongs with Delia, and one look at that picture proves that she and Dee are related. When we ran into her at the Wainbergs’ this afternoon, the mother was taking the baby to Delia. She backed off because of the party, but she took the first available opportunity to get the child into Isobel’s hands.”

“She must have seen the girls’ picture in the paper and made the connection,” I said. “Wainberg isn’t a common name and there is that stunning resemblance.”

“So the deed was done,” Zack said. “And now we have to deal with the consequences.”

When Zack’s phone rang, I tensed. I waited for a howl, but the little guy had snuggled in. It appeared our luck was turning. Not only had the baby slept through the ringtone, but the person calling was Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz. Zack’s account of the evening’s events was factual and concise, but his concern about the missing woman’s mental state was palpable. When he hung up, he sounded weary but satisfied. “Success,” he said. “Apparently it’s shit city out there. No power except on the east side. Traffic lights are out and the roads are godawful, so there are plenty of accidents. According to Debbie, some of our less principled fellow citizens are taking advantage of the blackout to smash windows and do a little Christmas shopping. It’s a bad night to be a cop, but Debbie’s going to send an officer to take the little guy to Regina General, and she’s going to put out an all-points bulletin on the mother.”

“Good,” I said. “So we should just wait here for the girls and the police.”

“Yep. Nothing to do but sit tight.”

“I noticed that when you described the baby’s mother to Debbie, you didn’t mention the connection with Delia.”

“Time enough for that,” Zack said. “It’ll be easier for Delia to hear the story from me.”

“It’ll be a shock,” I said.

Zack’s tone was pensive. “I wonder if it will be,” he said. “Only one way to find out.”

This time when he called Delia, Zack hit pay dirt. He gave her a brief account of the events of the evening, and apparently she didn’t ask questions. When he was finished, he listened for a moment. “Okay, I’ll call when we’re getting close,” he said.

I shifted the baby’s weight in my arms. “That was short and sweet.”

“Short, sweet, and only the beginning,” Zack said. “Delia’s going to meet us outside their house. Noah’s been driving home the sobriety-challenged, so he hasn’t ploughed their driveway, and Dee thinks we’d get stuck. Also she wants to make sure that before she and I talk, Isobel is out of earshot.”

The girls joined us, and not long afterwards a police officer found us, shone a flashlight on her badge, and took the baby. Her actions were swift and professional, but the darkness made the action surreal and, for me, deeply unsettling.

All of my children had been students at Luther: the three oldest for four years each, and Taylor for one semester so far. The campus was as familiar to me as my own backyard, but that night I lost my bearings. The school and the residences seemed part of an alien landscape, and the students bent over their shovels in the snow-choked parking lot had the cool menace of figures in a Magritte painting. Zack offered to drive, and I was relieved. I was normally a confident driver, but that night I felt unmoored.

Gracie Falconer’s house was the nearest, so we dropped her off first. It had been a silent drive, but Gracie was a girl who believed in happy endings, and as she opened the car door, her voice was plaintive. “This is going to be okay, isn’t it?”

Zack and I exchanged glances, but neither of us offered any reassurance. After Gracie was safely in the house, Zack called Delia and told her we were on our way. When we pulled up in front of the Wainbergs’, Delia was huddled in the doorway. As soon as she spotted our car, Delia turned on the flashlight in her hand and began plodding towards us. I handed Isobel our flashlight, and she started towards her house. Halfway up the path, she and her mother passed one another without either a greeting or an embrace.

There was a puff of cold air when Delia climbed into the back seat. Delia’s husky mezzo cracked as she asked Taylor to keep what she was about to hear private until Delia had had a chance to talk to Isobel. Then she leaned forward to get as close as she could to Zack. “What’s the situation?”

“The police took the child to the General for the night and they’re out looking for his mother.”

“I didn’t know there was a baby,” Delia said.

“But you do know the woman,” Zack said.

“We exchanged a few e-mails, and I spoke to her on the phone that day you were in the car with me, Joanne. I never met her face to face.”

Zack took out his camera, pulled up the photo of the woman, and handed the camera to Delia. “There’s her picture.”

Delia’s intake of breath was sharp. “I always wondered… ” she said.

Zack’s voice was low. “Dee, what’s going on?”

She ignored Zack’s question. “When can I get the child?”

“The child is related to you, then,” Zack said.

“The child’s mother is my daughter,” Delia said tightly. “And that’s as much as I can say tonight.”

Zack didn’t push it. “All right,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what can be done about getting the little boy.”

“The child is a boy.” Delia’s voice was a whisper.

“Yes,” Zack said. “And he looks just like Izzy did when she was a baby.”

“Beautiful,” Delia said.

“Very handsome,” Zack agreed. “Dee, you do realize that you’re going to have to tell the police everything. Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz is the officer I spoke to tonight. She’s reasonable, but I have a feeling this is going to be a long haul. You’ll want Debbie on your side, and if she finds out you’ve held back anything pertinent, she won’t be.”

“I’ll be cooperative, but before I sit down with the Inspector, I have to talk to Noah and Isobel. And I’m going to need a lawyer. I know you hate family law, but if I’m going to be spending months dealing with this, I don’t want to be stuck with a lawyer I don’t know.”

Zack shook his head. “Come on, Dee. You know the argument. A lawyer is supposed to give objective and dispassionate advice. That’s impossible when people are as close as we are. You need someone from another firm.”

“I don’t want someone from another firm. The legal community here is tight, and not all lawyers are as discreet as you are. The last thing I need is every lawyer in town obsessing over my private life. If you won’t take my case, I’ll handle it myself, and you know what they say about lawyers who represent themselves.”

Delia’s tone made it clear that she was not to be dissuaded. Zack didn’t even try. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in. Give me a call when you’re ready to talk.”

Delia reached forward and squeezed Zack’s shoulder. “Thanks.” She climbed out of the car, slammed the door shut, and started trudging up the path. The snow swirled around the bears Noah had carved, softening the lines of their heavy bodies. As Delia passed them, Zack said, “She looks so small.”

“Delia will be all right,” I said. “She’s one of the most capable people I know, and she has Noah. If the situation gets ugly, Papa Bear will step in.”

As we turned the corner onto our street, the power came back on. The old safe world had returned. Even better, our neighbour Frank van Valzer had cleared our driveway with his snow blower.

Zack cheered. “Saved by the head lamp on the Toro Power Max 828.”

“So you and Frank have been talking snow blowers,” I said.

“It’s a guy thing. Frank talks; I listen.”

“That’s pretty much the arrangement I have with Frank’s wife. She tells me all I need are geraniums, and I keep planting perennials.”

Zack drove into our garage and pulled the key out of the ignition. “Good to be home, eh?”

“Is it ever,” Taylor said. “Does anybody have a clue about what’s going on?”

“Why don’t we make some tea and tell you what we know,” Zack said.

Five minutes later, we were sitting at our kitchen table, waiting as the tea steeped. My old bouvier, Willie, was sprawled beside me; Pantera was in his customary place beside Zack’s wheelchair, and Taylor’s cats, Bruce and Benny, were curled up in their bed near the stove.

Zack poured the first cup and handed it to Taylor. “Okay, time for questions. Fire away.”

Taylor met his gaze. “Is that woman who gave Isobel the baby her sister?”

“My guess is she is Isobel’s half-sister,” Zack said.

Taylor picked up Benny and began stroking him. Benny shot a triumphant look at Bruce and began to purr. “The woman and Isobel have different fathers,” Taylor said. Her dark eyes darted from Zack to me. “Isobel always says her mother never makes mistakes. I guess she was wrong.”

I slept fitfully. The baby’s scent had clung to the material of the dress I’d been wearing, and when I hung it up, I remembered the weight of him in my arms, and the sharp and unexpected pain I’d felt when he’d been taken from me in the dark. Twice in the night I awoke, stabbed by a sense of loss, and lay in the dark, remembering, and listening to Zack’s breathing. The next morning I awoke to the phantasmagoric landscape of a city after a blizzard. The storm was over, but powerful winds were lifting the snow that had accumulated overnight and whirling it into the air. The effect was vertiginous, like being suspended upside down in a snow globe. I pressed my forehead against the glass doors that looked out on the bank of Wascana Creek. The levee where the dogs and I usually began our morning run was barely visible. Seeing that I was in motion, Willie and Pantera sprang into action and ran up the hall towards the hooks where their leashes hung.

I listened to the click of their nails on the hardwood, then went to the closet where I kept the heavy sweater, jacket, and snow pants that I used for winter running. When I was dressed, I turned and was met by Zack’s glare.

“You’re not going out in this.”

“The dogs are already at the door.”

“One of the reasons we bought this house is because it has a double lot – plenty of room for them to chase each other.”

“The dogs and I have an arrangement. I take them for a run, and they leave me alone for the rest of the morning.”

“So I should stick a sock in it?”

“Pretty much,” I said. I kissed him. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Carry your phone,” he said.

My run was miserable. The wind whipping off the creek froze my hair and the icy strands snapped at my face as I ran. Blowing snow made it impossible to distinguish between the path and the creek bank, and when I stumbled over a rock I hadn’t seen, only Willie’s broad back kept me from falling flat. It was time to admit defeat.

“Okay, boys,” I said. “We’re heading home.” Willie and Pantera didn’t balk. When we got back, Zack was still in bed, thumbing his BlackBerry. I’d left my parka, snow pants, and boots in the mudroom, but my hair was still frozen; my face was scarlet and chapped and my nose was running. Zack winced when he saw me. “You look like you could use a friend.”

“Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’ ”

“Get out of those wet clothes and come in here with me where it’s warm.”

“Said the Wolf to Little Red Riding Hood.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, Little Red.”

I stripped off my clothing and slid in. Zack leaned over and touched the button on the sound system beside the bed. Suddenly the room was filled Kiz Harp’s soulful, smoky voice singing “Winter Warm” – a paean to making love while the winds whip.

“You planned this,” I said.

Zack’s smile was wicked. “You’re a clever one, Little Red. I was planning to greet you in my smoking jacket, but you got back early.”

“You don’t own a smoking jacket.”

“Then you must take me as I am,” he said. And I did.

When we were through making love, Zack kissed the top of my head. “Better now?” he asked. “You were so sad last night.”

“Just tired and worried,” I said. “But I am once again ready to lick my weight in wild cats.”

Zack gazed out the window. “You may be off the hook. Not a wild cat in sight. That’s one lousy day out there.”

I burrowed deeper. “Then let’s stay in here.”

“Fine with me. We can get started on Sir Gawain.”

Zack was a skilful reader. Whenever our granddaughters, Madeleine and Lena, were with us overnight, he was always the storyteller of choice. He had an actor’s voice, rich and sonorous, and he had an actor’s ability to take his listeners to the heart of the tale.

The story was over five hundred years old, but it hadn’t lost its power, and as I lay with my back against Zack’s side and watched a snowdrift move incrementally up the glass patio door, I was content. The Green Knight had just challenged the gall, the gumption, and the guts of Arthur’s court, when Taylor knocked on the door and, without waiting for an invitation, came in. I was grateful she hadn’t wandered in fifteen minutes earlier. She was still in her pyjamas and, as she took in the scene, her mouth curled in a smile that was both affectionate and pitying. I had seen the smile a thousand times – it was her late mother’s smile, and during the years when Sally and I had been best friends, it had often been directed at me.

Taylor sat on the corner of the bed. “Were you guys reading to each other?”

“Zack was reading to me.”

“I’ll bet you’re the only parents in my entire school who do that,” she said. She hugged her knees to herself. “I came in to see if you’d heard anything about the baby.”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “Delia’s going to call Zack this morning.”

“So we don’t know why the baby’s mother gave him to Izzy?”

“No. For the time being, I guess we’ll just have be satisfied that the baby’s fine.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I woke up in the night wondering… ” Taylor swung her legs off the bed and went to peer out the patio doors. “So are we going to church in this?”

“I think we’ll stay put.”

Taylor yawned and stretched. “Good, then I’m going to grab a bagel and go out to my studio. I’ve started this new piece, and I’ve been having a problem. This morning I figured out that if I… ” She moved her hand in an arabesque of dismissal. “Well, never mind what I figured out.” She gave us her new Sally smile. “You two probably want to get back to your reading.”

After Taylor closed the door, Zack turned to me. “I sense that she no longer regards us as god-like.”

“She’s a teenager,” I said. “We’re starting to recede into the background.”

Zack scowled. “Forever?”

“Not forever – but Taylor’s trying to figure out who she is and what she wants out of life – those are pretty big questions.”

“That’s why she has us.”

I took his hand. “She also has Sally.”

“Sally’s been dead for ten years.”

“She still looms large for Taylor. The other day I went into her room and she was staring at a picture on her laptop. It was a self-portrait Sally had done when she was fourteen. Taylor said, ‘I’ll never be as good as she is,’ then burst into tears.”

“How did you handle it?”

“Badly. I gave her a hug and asked if she wanted to get two spoons and crack a carton of Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road with me.

“Sounds okay to me.”

“It wasn’t. I offered her comfort when she needed the truth.”

“So what is the truth?”

“When Sally made that painting of herself, she was in a sexual relationship with a forty-one-year-old man.”

“I thought you said she was fourteen.”

“I did. The sex started when she was thirteen.”

Zack placed Gawain face down on the bed. “That’s statutory rape,” he said.

“According to Sally it was a fair exchange. The man was an art critic named Izaak Levin. She needed what he could teach her and he needed -”

“To have sex with a prepubescent. Even if she consented, it’s still statutory rape. But the law aside, what kind of prick would engage in sex with a kid?”

“An eminently respectable one – a trusted colleague of Sally’s father. When Desmond Love died, Sally was lost. Desmond wasn’t just Sally’s father; he was her protector. He was an artist himself. Sally was, like Taylor, a prodigy. When Des recognized the talent Sally had, he created the conditions that would make it possible for her to do her best work.”

“So her father was her teacher?”

I shook my head. “According to Sally, anyone could have taught her technique. She seemed to feel that Des’s real gift was that he let her find out who she was as a painter. Des gave her space and he protected her against the people who Sally believed would cut off her air by talking to her about what she was doing. Sally and her mother had never been close. When Des died, Sally’s mother withdrew into her own grief, and Sally was left alone.

“So Izaak took Des Love’s place but extended the role.” Zack’s lip curled with disdain.

“Izaak and Sally went to the States and, to quote Sally, she spent a year seeing the U.S.A. in Izaak’s Chevrolet, fucking and learning about how to make art. By the time she was out of her teens, she was an established artist and Izaak was her agent.”

“He was having sex with her and taking her money.” Zack ran his hand over his head. “In my line of work we call guys like that pimps.”

“Sally didn’t view it that way – at least not consciously – but I’ve seen the self-portrait that affected Taylor so much when she saw it on the Internet. Actually, Izaak showed it to me himself. The painting was in his private collection. It’s the only piece of art Sally ever made that I can’t bear to look at. She painted herself stretched over the hood of Izaak’s convertible – the classic vintage pin-up pose. In the background is one of those no-tell motels that used to be along highways in the sixties. Even at fourteen, Sally was incredibly sensual, but there was so much more to her than that – she was smart and funny and thoughtful. None of that is in the self-portrait.”

“If the painting stinks, why was Taylor so impressed?”

“Because the painting doesn’t stink. Sally used acrylics in those saturated tones you see in old Technicolor movies, and the motel and Izaak’s yellow convertible are so luridly seductive you can almost hear them panting. Sally herself is another story. She’s absolutely lifeless – just a cut-out of a girl lying on the hood of a convertible waiting to be moved from motel to motel to serve a man.”

“Jesus,” Zack said. “And Taylor doesn’t know any of this.”

I shook my head. “No, and I don’t want her to.”

“You might revisit that decision, Jo. The truth has a way of coming out. Look at Delia’s situation. Besides, if Taylor knew the price her mother paid to make that painting, she might realize that the cost is too high.”

“She might,” I said. “Or she might decide that being as good an artist as her mother is worth whatever price she has to pay.”

“Over my dead body,” Zack said.

“Mine too,” I said. “Come on. Let’s have a shower.”

The phone rang just as I was handing Zack his towel. He squinted to see his watch through the steam. “Eight o’clock, straight up. It’ll be Delia.”

I picked up. Delia’s husky adolescent-boy’s voice cracked with urgency. “Jo, I need to talk to Zack.”

“I’ll get him.”

“No. I’m outside your house. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

I hung up, wrapped a towel around my hair and picked up my robe. “It’s Delia,” I said. “She’s outside, and she sounds tense.”

“So much for starting our day sunny side up,” Zack said.

Zack was right. Delia was not an ideal breakfast companion. She was a person who needed to have every detail under control, and that morning the world was conspiring against her. She’d been forced to drive through snow-clogged streets to deal with a problem whose magnitude and complexity I could only guess at, and for the first time in my memory, she had the wide-eyed gaze of someone whose life has just spun out of control.

No matter the season, Delia limited the colours in her wardrobe to black and white. That morning she was wearing a black ski jacket, a black wool cloche pulled down over her ears, and a black-and-white-striped wool scarf wound many times around her neck. She yanked off her hat, liberating her wiry salt-and-pepper hair. As always, several of Delia’s curls, obeying their own law of kinetic energy, sprang over her forehead. She ignored them, unwound her scarf, and handed it to me.

I hung it over a hook inside the closet. “Nice scarf,” I said.

“Check out the tension in the stitches. I made it while I was trying to quit smoking.” She pulled a pack of Benson and Hedges from her bag. “Not that it worked, of course.”

“You got a scarf out of it,” I said.

Delia cocked an eyebrow. “Zack’s been good for you – loosened you up. Where is he anyway?”

“Getting dressed. Come in and have some coffee while I get breakfast started.”

Delia had the faint lines around her eyes and mouth most of us have after fifty, but her skin was taut and the cold air had made it glow. In her invariable weekend outfit of oversized turtleneck, chinos, and thick socks, she looked, at first glance, like a teenager who had added silver highlights to her hair on a whim.

When Zack came in, he wheeled his chair close to her. “Whatever it is, Dee, we can handle it. Have you eaten?”

Delia shook her head. Zack gestured to the table. “Then sit down and have some breakfast. We can talk afterwards.”

I set a place for Delia, poured coffee and juice, and, when the porridge was ready, Zack spooned it into our bowls. Obedient as a well-schooled child, Delia ate what had been put in front of her. When she was through, she took her bowl to the sink, rinsed it, and returned to her chair. “The police called. The baby – his name, incidentally, is Jacob David Michaels – is fine. In fact he’s more than fine. They’ve weighed him, measured him, and tested him, and he’s healthy and responsive – perfect. There was an envelope addressed to me tucked under the lining of his baby seat. It contained Jacob’s birth certificate: his mother’s name is listed as Abigail Margaret Michaels; the name of the father is blank. There was a sheet with Jacob’s medical history and a booklet with his vaccination record.”

“Very thorough,” Zack said.

Delia gave him a wan smile. “Very,” she said. “There was also a note to me, stating that it was the mother’s wish that I have full custody of Jacob, and that as a lawyer, I would know the procedures necessary to ensure that custody. The note was signed ‘Abby Michaels.’ ”

“You two might find it easier to talk about this alone,” I said. I picked up my coffee. “I haven’t read the paper yet. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

Delia shook her head. “No, stay – please. This is going to come out anyway, and when it does, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

I sat back down.

Like all good trial lawyers, Delia knew how to create a gripping narrative, and her first sentence was dynamite.

“The year I clerked at the Supreme Court, I got pregnant.” Her eyes darted between Zack and me. “I’ll spare you the need to ask the burning question. I didn’t get an abortion because by the time it dawned on me that I was pregnant, I was well into the second trimester.” She shrugged. “I know it sounds like something out of a tabloid but there was a lot going on for me that year. I’d never lived outside Saskatchewan, and when I was at the College of Law I was cocooned with the Winners’ Circle. Suddenly I was in Ottawa, passing powerful people in the corridors, and working for Theo Brokaw. Apart from you, Zack, he was the only person I’d ever met who was smarter than me.”

When Zack smirked, Delia’s glance was withering. “That’s nothing to preen about,” she said. “It’s just a fact. Anyway, clerking at the Supreme Court was heady stuff – highly competitive. We were always working late – trying to out-dazzle one another.” She smiled at the memory. “But we were also young and hormonal… ”

“And you met somebody,” Zack said.

Delia tilted her chin defiantly. “I met a lot of ‘some-bodies,’ ” she said.

The look Zack gave his partner was challenging. “That doesn’t sound like you, Dee.”

“Don’t push it, Zack,” Delia said, and her voice was steely. “I mean it. Let it go.”

Zack shrugged. “You’re the client.”

She tried a smile and softened her tone. “Come on. Cast your mind back. You remember the syndrome. You’re always at the office; you’re not getting enough sleep; it occurs to you that you’re missing out on life, so you decide to have a few drinks with the nearest warm body and you end up having sex. Usually it’s just like scratching an itch – a relief with no permanent after-effects.”

Zack’s frown deepened. He wasn’t buying Delia’s story, but he was willing to play along. “But this time there was something permanent,” he said.

Delia’s small chest heaved. “Yes, this time there were consequences, although it took me a long time to be aware of them. My menstrual cycle had always been erratic. I was running every morning, so I didn’t put on much weight. And then one day I felt something inside me move. I went to an ob/gyn in Ottawa who told me I was five months’ pregnant. She couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been not to read the symptoms. Anyway, I had the baby in Ottawa, signed the appropriate papers, came home to Saskatchewan, and started studying for my bar exams. Being back with the Winners’ Circle was like sliding into my old skin.”

“Did you alert the men who might have fathered the child?” Zack said.

Delia shook her head. “There was no point. The doctor assured me the baby was healthy, and the agency said they had a long list of good families waiting for an infant. It was a closed chapter.”

“But it’s open now,” Zack said.

“Yes,” Delia said, “and not because I want it to be.” Her fingers touched the pack of cigarettes in front of her as if for reassurance, then she opened her bag and removed the printout of an e-mail exchange. She handed it to Zack. “This arrived in my e-mail on November 22 – two weeks ago today,” she said.

Zack slipped on his reading glasses and began to read. Delia fiddled with her cigarette package until I went to the cupboard, took down an ashtray, and put it in front of her. She mouthed the word “thanks” and lit up. Zack slid the printout to me.

Considering the subject of the note, the tone was cool.

On September 29, 1983, you, Delia Margolis Wainberg, gave birth to a female child in Ottawa Civic Hospital. I have recently discovered that I am that child. My name is Abby Michaels. As an infant I was placed with a family, and until their recent deaths, I believed I was their natural child. My birth certificate, the adoption papers, and the genetic history you supplied to the adoption agency were appended to their wills.

A circumstance in my own life makes it imperative that I possess all data relevant to my genetic background. I would be grateful if you could supply me with the name and contact information of my biological father. You have my word that my only interest in communicating with him is to ascertain relevant medical information. Beyond that, I have no interest in communicating further either with him or with you.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I handed the paper back to Delia. “Did you get in touch with her?” I asked.

Delia nodded. “My doctor was on holidays for a few days. When he returned he gave me a précis of everything medically relevant that had come to light in the years since the baby was born. I sent the notes to Abby Michaels on November 30.”

Zack leaned forward in his chair. “What did you tell Ms. Michaels about her biological father?”

“The same thing I told you,” Delia said tightly. “I told her that during the period when I might have been impregnated I was sexually active, and I couldn’t identify her biological father. I wished her well, and said that if she required any further information, she should feel free to get in touch.”

“Did she?” Zack asked.

“She called that day I was in the car with Joanne. She identified herself. Then she said, ‘You’ll have to live with what you’ve done,’ and hung up.”

“Did that make sense to you?” Zack asked.

“No, because I’d done everything she asked me to do. Zack, none of this makes sense. You saw her e-mail to me. Two weeks ago, Abby Michaels was rational and in charge of her life. She wanted medical information, and I supplied it. Friday, she phones, pronounces judgment on me, and hangs up before I can ask her to explain; then yesterday she hands her child over to Isobel and says he belongs with me. What happened?”

“One possibility is postpartum psychosis,” Zack said.

Remembering Zack’s account of the woman who threw her baby from the bridge, my throat tightened, but Delia was cool. “I’ve had a couple of those cases,” she said. “According to my reading, the onset of the disorder is usually quite soon after birth. Jacob is six months old, and the woman who wrote that e-mail didn’t sound as if she was suffering from anything. She was absolutely lucid.”

“But she wasn’t lucid yesterday when she gave her baby to Isobel and said the child belonged with you,” Zack said. “Whatever’s going on, Dee, time is not our friend. The sooner you talk to the cops, the better. If anything happens to Abby Michaels because we screwed up, neither of us is going to be happy.”

Delia inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring. “Okay, call your friend the Inspector – and tell her I’m Abby Michaels’s birth mother, and I want Jacob with me until they find her.”

Zack shot her a hard look. “You’re sure about this, Dee?”

Delia met his gaze. “I’m sure,” she said. For the first time, her voice faltered. “Jacob is family, Zack.”

Zack nodded. “In that case, I’ll call Debbie Haczkewicz and get the ball rolling.”

Zack was still on his cell with Debbie when the phone in the kitchen rang. The woman’s voice was patrician and assured. “Joanne, this is Myra Brokaw. I know it’s early to call, but I’m anxious to discuss Theo’s participation in the Supreme Court special.”

“Myra, I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time,” I said.

When she heard Myra Brokaw’s name, Delia’s attention shifted to me.

“Will there ever be a good time?” Myra said. Her words came rapidly. “I’ve given our situation a great deal of thought, and I believe I’ve come up with a plan that will work for us all. Will you at least come for tea and hear me out?”

“It’s the end of term,” I said. “And it’s a busy time of year. Can I check my calendar and call you back?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Myra said. “I’ll look forward to your call.”

Zack and I hung up simultaneously. We exchanged glances. “You first,” I said.

“The Inspector is on her way over,” Zack said. “Your turn.”

“I need your silver tongue,” I said. “Myra Brokaw has invited me to tea so we can discuss Justice Brokaw’s participation in our show.”

Zack winced. “Ouch.”

“What show?” Delia asked.

“NationTV is enamoured of those Issues for Dummies shows I’ve been working on. They’re cheap, they’re Canadian content, and they fill up airtime. The network’s been talking about branching out – getting experts to explain some of the institutions that govern the lives of ordinary Canadians.”

Delia frowned. “And Myra wants to involve Theo? My God, what’s the matter with her? Why would she expose him that way?”

“I take it he didn’t improve after we left yesterday.”

“No, he couldn’t seem to get past the fact that I wasn’t the young woman who’d clerked for him,” Delia said. “He and Myra stayed for about an hour yesterday afternoon. It was awkward. Theo kept staring at me and shaking his head. He seems to drift in and out.” There was real sadness in Delia’s voice. “He told me he was working on a book, but when I asked about the subject matter, he seemed confused. The next minute he was all excited because his papa was baking poppy seed bread and he’d promised him a slice before bed. He couldn’t remember my name. He kept calling me ‘that clever girl.’ He’d turn to Myra and whisper, ‘You remember her – that clever girl.’ And she’d nod and smile and say, ‘Of course.’ ”

“Had you met Myra before yesterday?” I asked.

“There was some kind of reception they had for the students the year I was clerking, but that was it.”

“Do you think Myra brought Theo back to Regina to hide him away?” I asked.

The smoke from her cigarette drifted around Delia’s face, obscuring her expression. “Probably. Revealing that her legal giant has feet of clay certainly wouldn’t be in Myra’s best interests. She’s invested her life in him. My guess is she’s just protecting her investment.”