(Content warnings: death and mourning, suicide, memory loss, sexual content)
This was not the first time that Evelyn had lost a grandchild, but she couldn’t remember the first. What was his name—Elliot? Arthur? Chester? She could recall nothing except a faint white aurora and the scent of bulrushes in the rain.
She resented the rain.
It still slicked her skin on Wednesday mornings while she tended to the hives. It pruned the tips of her fingers and seeped into her veins where it could course, untethered from the sky, through her body. Bloodletting would not expel the rain. It dwelled in her now, roiling and churning, making her feel waterlogged every day. But at night the rain in her body would settle enough that she could clearly see things that looked refracted during the day.
This morning, as sunlight broke through the window curtains, there had been a man in her kitchen making toast and
olives, and she stood around the corner watching him work. He spread the olives on his toast while he hummed a song—one of Evan’s songs, called “Lavender Fields,” which was a nice song laced with dark vision: antlers black with honey, and matted fur, and hot breath cut by droplets falling, falling from the sky always—and punctuated it with clearances of his throat, a problem she knew could be remedied by chamomile tea with clover honey from her southmost hives. He dipped the knife back into the jar as he went, no doubt getting crumbs in the olives. She told Franklin every day not to do that, but he never listened, and every day she had to scoop out great gobs from the container and rap the spoon against the edge of the trashcan. She sure as hell wasn’t going to cook with gross, crumby olives.
She watched the man finish his toast and leave.
The bees were calm today. She’d extracted honey from the hives without being stung once. It had been a while since that had happened. She remembered the pain of the barb plunging into her skin, of venom mixing with blood and rainwater. But she also remembered Mirabelle extracting the barb with tweezers in the bathroom, her kisses fluttering against the sting. Mirabelle smelled of orange marmalade and peppermint. Incongruous but revitalizing. As if when Evelyn breathed her lungs full of Mirabelle, they would be made new again. Every breath after that would be her first in the world.
She hadn’t breathed her lungs full of Mirabelle in decades. But she could still remember that sensation, sweet and refreshing, of her lungs’ newness. She remembered days escaping into the woods from the fields. On those days, the world imprinted itself against her body: bark, leaves, grass, mud. Her skin knew these things. But all it felt now was sunlight and honey.
She had visited the last apiary and pulled the honeycomb from its wooden housing. The honey was fragrant with alfalfa. She’d brushed away buzzing bees and found the corpses of several others pocking the honeycomb, uncleared from the hive by their siblings. She had put the dead bees into a small jar and brought them into the house, placing them in the fridge. She would examine their bodies later, looking for disease or injury.
She stood at the fridge, staring at its contents through the rain. What was the thing on the top shelf? It resembled an orange but it appeared different in colour, almost
purple, almost
alien.
A figure passed by the window and she turned to face it. She only caught a glimpse: dark antlers and snow (not the kind that fell from the clouds in the winter and piled in damp mounds against the house, but the kind that fritzed on the television while the other kind was falling heavy and angry and wet).
She was in the woods, and she lay with her leg over Mirabelle’s. They held hands and their naked bodies cooled against the grass and the dirt. Neither of them cared that ants and spiders crawled around them, or on them—they did, after all, spend their days surrounded by insects—nor that pine needles pricked them—they did, after all, suffer bee stings now and again. Mirabelle asked, Do you ever come into these woods by yourself?
Not really. You?
Sometimes. Last week I did. I found a trail of fireflies.
You came here at night?
Mirabelle sat up and her back was coated with needles and dirt. It looked like fur, as if she were half-deer, or half-caribou, or half-moose. Something like that. Mirabelle said, Yeah. I mean, when do you think I’d be able to? I work with you all day.
“Work,” said Evelyn, miming scare-quotes with her fingers.
Mirabelle laughed and said, Yes, “work.” Yes. Bees for us, seas for Mr. Boyd.
Hardly seas, said Evelyn. I can’t remember the last time Lawrence went out on a ship. He mostly works in the offices.
I know, Eve.
Nobody called her Eve except Mirabelle and the occasional family member. The latter she discouraged with looks venomous enough to make the honeybees jealous, if honeybees could feel jealousy. For Mirabelle, she allowed it, not necessarily because she liked it but because she knew Mirabelle did. But she suspected that Mirabelle liked it because she (Mirabelle) knew that she (Evelyn) didn’t—but by virtue of her (Mirabelle) liking it, she (Evelyn) didn’t, you know, dislike it, which make her (Mirabelle) like it less and less until she (Evelyn) had no reason to not dislike it anymore, in which case, her (Evelyn’s) dislike for the short-form was again apparent and then she (Mirabelle) would like it again, and the whole loop started over.
Evelyn licked a smudge of sap from Mirabelle’s wrist and Mirabelle said, So I saw this trail of fireflies—
Right. Did you follow it?
Of course.
And?
Mirabelle looked
and that made Evelyn feel it too, even though she didn’t know why. Mirabelle said, There was a person in the woods. Out here.
Who?
I don’t know. I don’t—I’m not sure it was a person, though.
What does that mean?
It means what it means. I’m not sure it was a person. Like a human.
Thunder broke through the branches and Evelyn said, We should get back. It’s almost two.
She closed the fridge and shuffled to the front door, unbolted it, and stepped out into the sun. She looked in the direction of the apiaries but saw nothing. The bees busied themselves with pollen-gathering, coming and going from the fields carrying clover, buckwheat, alfalfa. These were the honeys she sold, online and in markets around the Greater Toronto Area. Nothing disturbed the bees, and nothing disturbed her product.
In the other direction, a figure disappeared into the trees.
Evelyn?
She turned to face a woman who stood in her living room.
The woman—who was this woman?—had long, black hair and she wore a white bathrobe. Her eyes looked red and puffy from crying.
It’s me, said the woman. Rose.
Evelyn said nothing.
Ro—
Rose, interrupted Evelyn, yes. Where is Franklin?
He’s at work. They called him back in. Twenty years out in the middle of nowhere in BC, and one day after our son’s funeral they want him back at HQ. What are you doing just standing there?
I thought I saw….
Evelyn trailed off because she knew that Rose would think her crazy or senile or both. She knew what she saw but she couldn’t have seen it. Never. Yet how many times had she told herself this? Denied what she knew about the woods?
Evelyn said, Nothing.
Come inside.
Evelyn closed the door as she stepped back into the
boat, out on which Lawrence had gone for a month. Nothing major, just a routine trip to train some recruits, then back to the offices for him.
She and Mirabelle toiled in the fields and the apiaries, and they spent honeyed nights in the bed that Lawrence had built from oak trees on the edge of the woods. “The uglies,” he had called them. The trees that broke the neat line of trunks that constituted the border between the woods and their farm. They needed to go, just like Lawrence needed to stack the spoons neatly in the cutlery drawer instead of piling them haphazardly on top of each other, like he needed to align each piece of furniture with the lines in the floor, like he needed to fold his underwear into squares precisely ten centimetres by ten. He also needed to make the bed each morning, tucking the blankets neatly under the mattress so they wouldn’t hang. These mornings, while he was away, Evelyn did not make the bed. She and Mirabelle revelled in the chaos of it unmade, and they imagined it as a vortex in the sky into which their sex could make them disappear. Lawrence would have found such a thing unbearable, if he could even imagine it. But to Evelyn and Mirabelle, the escape was
purple—no… inevitable. That was it. That was the word. But what was
purple? She searched her mind for the information. Adjective, sure. Yes. But meaning what? What were things that were purple? She closed her eyes to remember.
I still can’t believe he’s gone, said Rose.
Franklin?
Rose’s mouth hung open and she glared at Evelyn. A memory: Franklin and Rose in a white hospital room, holding Evan. Evelyn and Lawrence, holding hands, coming in to see their grandson for the first time. Rain pattering against the window. Franklin saying, Hi, Mom, and hugging her before she passed him to stand by Rose’s side, asking to hold Evan, and the serenity on his face, sleeping as Rose transferred him to Evelyn, supporting his head until Evelyn said, I’ve got him, and then holding Evan close and saying to him, Oh, my goodness, you’re beautiful. And he was.
She shook her head and said, Sorry. That was stupid of me.
Rose closed her mouth and covered it with a hand.
Sorry.
Rose said, It’s okay. It’s still fresh.
Yes, it is.
I still can’t believe he’s gone, Rose repeated, as she sat down at the table.
It’ll take some time. When your father-in-law passed, it took me two months to stop feeling surprised in the morning when his side of the bed was still neatly made.
He was so neat.
He used to do this thing whenever we’d eat anything that came on paper, like a hamburger, or a sandwich. Or fish and—you know. What’s it called?
Chips?
Chips.
Chips.
He’d do this thing with the paper where he’d fold the bottom edge up, exactly parallel, three inches. Then he’d fold it again one inch, so there’d be this little catcher, this, like, barrier, between him and his food. A neat little line that would stop any food from rolling down into his lap if it fell apart. And I remember this one time, I asked him not to. I don’t know why; I probably just wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t. Of course, he did it, for me. And he went nuts.
Rose smiled.
He couldn’t handle it. I could see the vein in his temple just a-going the entire time he ate. And he took a bite of his hamburger and this little piece of onion fell out of it, and it rolled backward, toward him, and it fell in his lap. And ooooooooooh boy. Rose, let me tell you. I don’t know if he ever ate another hamburger again, for the rest of his life. I never asked him not to do any of his little routines again.
Rose laughed. Evelyn felt happy to see it. Rose said, He’s a lot like Franklin.
Except for leaving crumbs in the olives.
The olives?
The—
Margarine?
Yes, sorry. Crumbs in the margarine.
But other than that, really, he’s a lot like Franklin.
Evelyn said, But so unlike your boys.
Rose buried her face in her hands but didn’t
return, said Mirabelle. Come with me, before he does. Let’s just go, Eve. Let’s just go.
Evelyn said nothing.
I can’t stay here.
Evelyn applied a label to a jar but it was the wrong one. This was alfalfa honey, but the label said blueberry. She said, Fuck.
Mirabelle said, We can do lots of that.
Evelyn rolled her eyes and said, Take a cold bath.
Mirabelle smirked and opened the front door. She turned and said, I’ll be in the forest at midnight. Pack your things and meet me if you want to come with me. I’ll wait for you near our tree, with that lantern.
And she was gone.
I still just can’t believe he’s gone, said Rose.
Evelyn looked out the window toward the woods and saw her apicultural apprentices, Nick and Robin, emerge from the treeline. They often ate lunch there, but Evelyn knew it wasn’t the same as when she and Mirabelle would sneak off at lunchtime. At most, those two fooled around now and again. They returned from lunch, some days, with pine needles and dirt stuck to the backs of their shirts, and in their hair. Not often, but sometimes. It wasn’t the same.
He would never ask her to run away with him, to flee to a better place and leave everything behind. And she would never stay behind.
Rose said, Is it bad that I’m angry?
Evelyn filled a teapot with water and placed it on the stove, then said, I don’t think so. I think everyone reacts differently to these sorts of things. And as long as your reaction isn’t hurting anyone else, or interfering with their own grief, then you’re probably okay. Are you angry with him? With Evan?
Yes. I mean, I think so. I just don’t understand why he would do this. Kill himself. He was always so strong.
I don’t necessarily think that killing oneself is an act of weakness.
I do, said Rose.
I think a lot of people do.
When the teapot began whistling, Evelyn took it from the stovetop. She spooned some clover honey into two teacups and poured the water in, so the honey dissolved, turning the water gold. She turned to Rose and asked, Jasmine okay?
Rose nodded.
In any case, said Evelyn, it’s okay to feel how you feel. And we’re all here to talk.
She put Rose’s tea on the dining table and sat down with her. She sipped from her own mug and thought of
of
her hand on the doorknob, bags draped from her shoulders, ready to flee into the rain. But why was she fleeing, again?
She said, Rose?
Yeah?
I remember that I was going somewhere… where was I going?
I’m not sure what you’re talking about. You were going somewhere today?
No, tonight. I’m supposed to meet someone but I can’t remember—
Meet someone?
Yes, but I can’t remember who.
Oh.
I’m sorry. What were we talking about, dear?
Rose said, Evan.
Evelyn paused and almost said, No, it’s Evelyn, but then remembered a hole in the ground, and a coffin being lowered into it. People singing a song she couldn’t understand. A breeze unable to cool her body, the Toronto humidity burrowing into her skin like a colony of
raindrops hammering against the door, and a decision, a decision to leave while Lawrence was out to sea, both of them soaked through and wishing they could better see the stars, see Leo—the constellation under which they fell in love. She hiked the purple bag higher up on her shoulder and opened the door, walking out into the torrent to meet
Okay, said Evelyn, slapping her palm on the table. She had finished her tea, so she said, Time to get back to work.
Rose sipped her tea and said, Okay. Do you need any help?
No, Rose, that’s very kind but it’s not necessary. I’ve got the kids out there, Nick and Robin. They’re pretty good when they’re not fucking in the woods.
Rose choke-laughed and said, Jesus!
Evelyn said, If you want to keep busy, why not make us some lunch? I’ll be back soon. Can’t work as long anymore without needing a rest.
Sure. Keep myself busy—that’s a good idea.
I know, dear.
Evelyn left and waved to the kids, who were extracting honey from the apiaries close to the house. She walked to the woods to meet the figure that passed by the window. To see it clearly for the first time. She wondered if its snow—snow? No, fur. She wondered if its fur smelled of alfalfa, or of marmalade, or of peppermint. A vision crossed her mind, of making love to an antlered beast with black holes for eyes and fur like television static in the pine needles, but she quickly waved it away. She said aloud, No.
She felt an overwhelming gravity pulling her toward the trees. Under each footstep she imagined a shock of flowers blooming
purple in a streak as she tossed her bags at the foot of the tree at which she and Mirabelle first kissed: the tall oak with the moss grown in the shape of a question mark. She lifted the hood of her poncho and waited there in the canopy-cut rain for Mirabelle to arrive.
She waited for a long time.
After the rain had soaked through her clothes and into her skin, she began to cry. This was not the plan. Where had Mirabelle gone? Why hadn’t she met Evelyn by their tree? Evelyn thought of the life she’d been prepared to leave behind. All of her belongings (and, to be honest, some of Lawrence’s) packed into bags now drenched and carving their own rivulets into the mud and pine needles. A life to which she’d said goodbye, for Mirabelle.
In the darkness, she saw movement. The outline of an impossibly large man with antlers growing from his head, his skin shimmering.
She called out,
Melody?
No.
Miriam?
Fuck.
No, I won’t lose this.
She called out—
and the creature came toward her, lumbering and aromatic, a smell she couldn’t quite define, a mixture of marmalade and
Please, not this. Not her.
Evelyn? she heard someone yell. Evelyn, where are you?
Her hand in someone else’s, laying on the ground.
Evelyn?
and the creature, obscured by leaves and light and rainfall, stopped short and looked around, as if hearing a voice
calling, Evelyn, are you okay? Evelyn, what’s going on?
Evelyn blinked and rubbed her thumb across her fingertips, as if to check for rainwater that wasn’t there. She said, Rose, what’s going on?
Rose put her hands on Evelyn’s shoulders. Her bathrobe had accumulated a small dusting of pine needles and leaves. She said, You were screaming someone’s name.
Evelyn said, What? Whose name?
And Rose said, Mirabelle.
Something moved in the trees just over Rose’s shoulder, but Evelyn said nothing. She said, Oh.
Who’s Mirabelle?
She used to work for us. For me and Lawrence. She tended the bees, helped me jar honey.
You saw her just now. Here in the woods?
Evelyn closed her eyes and saw the creature in the darkness, looming in the rain.
Not for a long time, she said.
Nick and Robin approached. Nick was holding a red canvas first aid kit. He said, Mrs. Boyd?
Yes? said Rose and Evelyn, together.
Is everything okay?
I think so, said Rose. What’s your name again, son?
Nick. She’s Robin.
Could you two run back to the house and get me my cell phone? It’s in the guest bedroom, on the right-hand bedside table.
Sure.
Nick looked at Robin for a moment before they turned and jogged back through the woods.
What’s going on, Evelyn? Can you talk to me?
Evelyn sighed, then asked, Have you read Barney’s Version?
What?
Barney’s Version, by Mordecai Richler.
Oh. No.
I recently remembered a passage from that book that I loved, when I read it, about a moment when Barney, the main character, he calls his son in the middle of the night because he can’t remember the word for colander. I remember loving that moment, and putting a heart next to it in the book.
Okay.
So I opened the book to reread it, that moment. But the note I’d made was a laughing face, and it was actually next to the line, “Mustn’t wake Lady Health Fascist.” The actual dialogue about the colander wasn’t funny at all. It was scary. Heartbreaking.
Why?
Because he couldn’t remember. He brings it up again later, when he’s talking about the story of his wasted life. How soon he won’t even be able to remember his own name.
Evelyn.
Hmm.
Evelyn, I think we might need to take you to the doctor.
You want to know where I drew the heart in Barney’s Version?
Rose nodded, as she put her arm around Evelyn’s shoulder.
Around the name
Mirabelle, she called out, screaming it into the face of the creature. In the quiet of the night, she wished for any other sound to drown out the staticky noise emanating from its body. She wished for rain.
She approached the creature, and the noise grew louder until it became a din buffeting her face. She pressed herself into its
fur
sweater
snow and screamed another muffled plea. She burrowed deeper into its fur and squinted to see past the flickering static to its skin, blacker than the void of space, a form for nothing more than devouring light, and its mass drew her in and swallowed her, until she folded back upon herself like membranous wings nearly touching at the nadir of each flutter, a supermassive puddle of blankets and sheets—having eaten, the accretion receded into an infinitesimal purple speck.
I’m going to be okay, she said.
Rose said, I know you are. You always are.
Rose helped her up the porch stairs, past the lantern that hung from the gable. As they passed it, Evelyn reached out and turned it on. In the daylight, the purple light was dim, but hopeful. Evelyn asked, Could you leave that on, please, dear?
Rose nodded, and together, they went in.
