Chapter Forty
TWO MONTHS LATER
Matthew’s toast pops up just as his phone buzzes on the counter beside him.
I see his quandary, so I move over and butter the toast before it gets cold, leaving him open to answer the phone.
We’ve only been together a couple of months, but we have a natural rhythm, and it’s working out well.
We fill in each other’s blanks, I guess.
I pour his coffee, since he already poured mine, and when I hand it over, he gives me a vague nod of thanks. He’s completely focused on the phone call.
“Sure, I’ll tell her,” he says slowly, eyeing me. “Send me the time and place, and we’ll be there. Thanks, Louis.”
I’m intrigued by the bemused expression on his face. “Louis? What’s he up to?” I ask as he ends the call.
Louis’s article about Claudia had been a masterpiece in investigative journalism.
That’s what he told us, anyway. It was well done, I’ll admit, and it told me a lot of things I hadn’t known before.
The biggest revelation to me was how Claudia had become a part of Mazza’s dark world.
He’d been working with a few developers, and after that fatal balcony crash six years ago, she’d gone to him for help.
Seeing a potential useful worker bee in Claudia, Mazza covered up what happened and paid off both the victims and the media.
I was surprised when she eventually broke under pressure and told the police everything, but she had a good lawyer.
I picture her sipping mai tais on a beach somewhere, now that she’s earned herself a place with witness protection.
“You won’t believe it. Come and sit.” We head to the couch, and he takes a second. “I didn’t realize that Louis had been working on a feature for the paper.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s writing about The Ward.”
“Good for him. There’s not enough known about that history.”
He nods vaguely, his thoughts somewhere else. The whole time, his smile is growing.
“What? There’s more? Tell me. Your expression is driving me nuts.”
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s just…” His eyes hold mine. “As part of his research, Louis is going to the Summerside Seniors Centre to interview a woman who lived in The Ward as a young woman.”
“That sounds interesting. She’d be pretty old if she lived there. Why did he call you about it, and why did you tell him we’d go?”
A grin bursts through. “Because the woman he’s going to speak with, well, her name is Rosie Ryan.”
“What?” Coffee sloshes over the rim of my cup.
“You heard me.”
My pulse is racing. How many Rosie Ryans can there be in Toronto? “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Rosie… she’s… she’s still alive? She must be…”
“A hundred and twelve. You have good genetics, evidently.”
My mind is racing so fast, I can hardly think. “No. I don’t believe it. It can’t be the same woman. She’d have to be the oldest woman alive!”
“Nope. Oldest woman alive is a hundred and sixteen. A Brazilian nun, I believe. So I thought we might go and meet this Rosie Ryan. See for ourselves.”
I’m in shock. “I have to bring my grandmother. She won’t believe it, either.”
A frown crosses his brow. “Careful, Bridget. You can ask, but after everything you’ve told me, she might not want to meet her.”
“What are you talking about? I have to. Rosie is her mother, and they’ve never met.”
He doesn’t move, but he watches me, willing me to think a little deeper. Then his meaning sinks in, and I realize he’s right. All Grandma has of her mother is a group photograph and a quick note of regret, and she has been very clear that she wants nothing more than that.
I have often wondered how I might feel, had her story been my story.
I’d like to think I’d be intrigued enough to search for my mother, but that could be because my mother and I had been close.
But if I’d never known her, would I have bothered?
Would I, like Grandma, have been so badly hurt that I wouldn’t seek her out?
Rosie Ryan is a hundred and twelve years old. Grandma and I have both assumed that wherever she was, she was dead by now. Fair to say that we’d been pretty sure of it, and by thinking of her that way, it took the burden of curiosity away.
Already, I’m picking up my purse, and he holds up my jacket. I shrug into the sleeves and call her simultaneously. “Can I come over? I need to talk with you about something.”
She sounds confused but pleased.
“I’ll bring donuts. And, um, I’m bringing Matthew.” I wonder if he hears her gleeful reply from where he’s standing. I hang up and look at him. “Sorry to volunteer you. I don’t know how to tell her.”
“I’m honoured to be invited. When are we going?”
“Now.”
He watches me fumble in my purse for my wallet, then he leans in and gives me a warm kiss on my cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s on me.”
I am so glad he’s here.
The Uber to Grandma’s goes by in a flash, at least to me, because I don’t register where we are.
My mind is completely focused on this impossible news.
Every so often, Matthew’s hand squeezes mine, bringing me back to earth.
When we arrive, Grandma opens the door and brightens along with my own eager smile.
I feel like I’m ready to burst with the news, except I am aware I must be careful.
This could go any number of ways. I open my mouth to speak, but she saves me. She looks right past me.
“You must be Matthew,” she gushes. She eyes the box in my hand but only speaks to him. “Did you get the glazed ones?”
“Bridget said that was mandatory. That, and a lot of napkins.”
She claps her hands and takes Matthew’s elbow, leaving me to carry everything in. As the two of them get to know each other, I struggle to get my thoughts in order. Grandma positions herself between the two of us, then she pats his knee with her hand and offers him a donut.
My ninety-four-year-old grandmother is flirting with my boyfriend.
Matthew appears delighted. He offers her one as well, and she picks out her favourite—sour cream glazed. He grins at me, then he sobers slightly, reading my concern.
Grandma spots it, too. “Don’t keep me in suspense. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I take a deep breath. “I need to tell you something important.”
“Are you all right, dear?” That’s her, leaping to the conclusion that something bad has happened to me. She has become my mother, who I see in her mannerisms sometimes. Will I see any of those in her mother?
“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually.”
“Is she?” Grandma asks Matthew.
He swallows a bite of his donut, trying not to laugh. “She certainly is. She just has some big news.”
“Well?” she demands. “Don’t hold out on me.” Her eyes light up. “Are you two getting married?”
“Grandma!” I cry.
Matthew covers his mouth, keeping the crumbs from flying out when he laughs.
“What? Is that a no?”
He leans forward, his expression conspiratorial as he casts his spell on her. I understand that feeling very well.
“I haven’t asked her yet,” he tells her softly.
Not soft enough, though. I am so surprised by this confession, I almost forget why we’re here.
“Anyhow,” he says, waving me on, “Bridget has something important to tell you.”
She nods in anticipation and reaches for my hand.
I drop my gaze to where they link, and I see the transparency of her skin, the network of blue veins beneath.
I have seen so many photographs of her when she was younger, and I know she had a good life.
A happy one. And a long one. Still, that doesn’t stop me from wishing for more time.
I summon courage, then I throw it all out at once. “Your mother is alive and living in the Summerside Seniors residence downtown. I want to take you to see her tomorrow afternoon.”
No one moves. Matthew and I are watching, waiting for some kind of reaction. I see Grandma’s expression transform from disbelieving to forbidding, but somewhere in between I swear I see a glimmer of hope.
“No, that can’t be right, Bridget. She would be far too old.”
“She is a hundred and twelve,” Matthew puts in helpfully. “A friend of mine is interviewing her for an article, and we’re going to see her.”
Grandma and I stare at each other. It’s her turn. After a pause, her shoulders fall, and I know her answer before she says it.
“Well, I’m not coming with you.”
“Grandma—”
“You go.”
She drops her donut onto her plate and rubs her hands together to clear them of sugar.
Her mouth pulls into a tight grimace, and I’m afraid she’ll cry.
I’m not sure how to handle that. The only time I’ve ever seen Grandma cry was after my mother died.
For as long as she could, she’d kept up that stiff upper lip people are always talking about, but she could not hold it forever.
I remember, as a child, feeling completely bewildered, seeing her in that state.
Grandma had become my world in the moment the car killed my mother, and I was frightened to see her so sad.
But this time, I’m wrong. She’s not sad. She’s furious.
“You go. Ask her where she’s been all my life, Bridget.
Ask her what kind of mother dumps a baby, then forgets all about her.
Ask her… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Ancient history.
I have absolutely no interest in meeting that woman.
Thank you for telling me, but I’m not coming with you, Bridget, and that’s final. ”